


The Price of a Moment

by childofthemuses



Category: Moulin Rouge! (2001), Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Cabarets, Constant Breakdowns, Dancing and Singing, Domestic Violence, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, F/M, Flirting, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lance has great outfits, Langst, Like Moulin Rouge, Love Triangles, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Character Death, Music AU, Panic Attacks, Pining, Postmodern Jukebox, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Smitten Keith (Voltron), Suicidal Thoughts, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, and wears dresses because he looks amazing, character injury, klangst, past trauma, rape mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 145,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/childofthemuses/pseuds/childofthemuses
Summary: Keith is a closed book.He works. He tries not to starve. He tries not to get evicted. And, when he has time, he writes.That is, until Shiro drags him to a show at the Cafe de L'Altea...
Relationships: Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Allura/Romelle (Voltron), Hunk/Shay (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron), Klance - Relationship, Lance/Lotor (Voltron), Lancelot - Relationship, Rollura, Shunk - Relationship, adashi - Relationship
Comments: 157
Kudos: 202
Collections: Sensational _klance





	1. Toxic

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys !  
> Welcome to an all new AU.  
> Truthfully, I've been slowly working on this for a year. It is the longest I've constantly thought about a project without moving onto something new, and I'm almost scared to put it out there. Originally I wanted to get the full thing written before putting it up on AO3, but in these times of stress and crisis I figured I would put it out there for whomever may enjoy it.  
> I aim to update this regularly, so if you enjoy press that subscribe button!  
> All of the chapters will feature a song which the title will be named after, and the song will be incorporated somewhere in the chapter.  
> This has been a brain baby of mine for a long while, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> This chapter features Postmodern Jukebox's version of 'Toxic', and can be found [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZILsHowUjpQ)
> 
> (Also I've been a little lazy so please don't @ me for time period inconsistencies...)

Keith’s shirt collar was digging into his throat. He huffed a breath, pulling at the stiff edge of the shirt with irritation. And the bowtie certainly wasn’t helping.

“Stop fidgeting,” Shiro scalded, leading them closer and closer towards the twinkling red lights of the club. They were almost there now, each step twisting Keith’s gut uncomfortably.

“I don’t understand why I needed to dress up,” He said, still unable to shift the deep set scowl that had set into his features several hours ago.

“Because we’re going to my place of work, and you’re going to meet my colleagues for the first time,” Shiro said patiently, trying to keep the fatigue from his voice as he explained the situation to Keith for what may have been the hundredth time. “I’ve told them a lot about you. Allura will not be impressed if you turn up looking like a scruff bag.”

Keith bit down on his tongue to stop his retort – why did he need to impress these people? Why did he have to make sure they liked him? It’s not like he cared.

But he knew the answer: for Shiro. Shiro cared. So if it mattered to Shiro, then Keith should at least try.

Even if his shirt was restricting his breathing.

“Well, I don’t understand why I have to meet them at all…” He grumbled. Why not remain a mystery, allow Shiro’s work mates to keep their idealised versions of him and he could spend his evening how he wants to: alone, surrounded by pen and paper.

“Because it’s my birthday, you asshole,” Shiro snapped, his voice at least still holding onto his good humour. “So I get to make the rules. And you’re going to mingle with my friends and _be nice.”_

“I can probably manage one of those things – make a choice.”

Shiro shoved him with his shoulder, the larger man sending Keith careening to the side. “Stop being a baby. If you lighten up a bit, you might even have a good time.”

Keith settled his hands deep into his jacket pockets, hiding his curled fists from Shiro.

“Besides, there’s a free bar.”

Keith scowled a little less at that.

The city of Paris was quiet, as was usual for a Monday evening. Clouds rolled overhead, warning of a coming downpour, but nothing had come of the threat just yet. Springtime in the city, and the air tasted fresh and sweet. Nothing like the suffocating heat of the summer, nor the blistering chill of the winter. This was Keith’s favourite time of year: the colours which emerged after months of a bleak, black and white landscape, like a painter beginning to fill in his meticulously planned outline. The haunting emptiness of the city beginning to be filled with the sounds of birdsong and children.

Not that he particularly enjoyed the company of either. But it was better than the quiet.

The Café de L’Altea came into view, looming close enough for Keith to make out the looping script of the building’s sign, illuminated with the glow from red lights framing the edges. As they came to the door, there was a clear ‘closed’ sign displayed through the glass, and Keith’s brow quirked. He looked to Shiro, confused.

Shiro grabbed his arm, leading him further down and around a corner to the right. “This is a private function,” Shiro explained with a wink, “Feel honoured, you’re getting to use the performer entrance.”

Shiro knocked on the door, and a short girl with glasses opened it from the other side. “Shiro!” She beamed. “Happy birthday!” She pulled him into a hasty hug, before declaring, “Let’s get drunk!”

“Pidge-” Shiro started with a roll of his eyes.

But this ‘Pidge’ had already been distracted, her eyes landing on Keith’s uncomfortable form trying desperately to hide behind Shiro’s large frame.

“Oooohhhhh,” She remarked, drawing out the sound. She smirked, shooting Shiro a glance, “And who may this be? Someone to make Adam jealous?”

Shiro chuckled, reaching back to drag Keith forward and into the light. “Pidge, this is Keith. Keith, Pidge.”

Keith nodded his greeting, holding the smaller girl’s gaze for a moment before looking away.

“A big talker, is he?” She teased.

“Maybe after a drink or two.” Shiro laughed, finally making his way into the building and dragging Keith along behind him. Pidge stepped back out of their way before securing the door behind them.

“Shiro…” Keith complained, not enjoying being made fun of.

“You’re doing great,” Shiro said encouragingly. “One down!”

Keith grumbled to himself, regretting allowing Shiro to convince him to attend this.

“Calm down, Keeeiiith,” Pidge said from behind, stretching out the middle of his name. “We don’t bite…well, you might need to watch out for Allura.”

Keith shot the small troll one of his best scowls over his shoulder, brows dropping low over his eyes. She giggled.

Shiro sighed. “Keith, be nice.”

“But-”

“ _Be. Nice_.”

There was no time for debate however, because Keith was rushed through a large dressing area and out a side door. Before him, a large hall opened up. They were standing to the left of a low stage, occupied only by a small band at this time: some brass, a double bass, a drum kit. They played soft, calm jazz that managed to reach every corner of the room. Throughout the room were numerous round tables surrounded by chairs, each draped with a white table cloth. The space was designed for patrons to be able to sit and enjoy their company or their beverages, taking in as much of the entertainment as they wished. The tables went right up to the stage’s edge, those who paid more were gifted the best of views – close enough that they could reach out and touch an act, if they so wished.

Not that it would end well if they did.

Either end of the stage was a graceful set of stairs, designed to allow acts to leave the stage and walk amongst the crowds if they so desired. The stage was large enough to be able to house dance groups and their routines, bleachers in the back for a large band should they wish. In the centre of the stage was a lone microphone stand, yet there was no microphone in side.

Shiro nudged Keith’s arm, making him drag his attention from the stage to the group of people spectating their arrival.

Clustering the round tables at the foot of the stage was a large group of people. Once they realised that Shiro had arrived there was a lot of elbow nudging and whispering before the entire party burst into a rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’, the tipsy crowd shouting the lyrics as loudly as they could in a bid to embarrass Shiro.

Keith wrinkled his nose. These were performers – weren’t they supposed to be able to sing?

Shiro grinned and laughed, cheeks blushing red from all the attention but seeming pleased none the less. He stepped towards the cheering group, still laughing, and leaving Keith in his wake to catch up. The sour man stepped after him, trying to mimic Shiro’s carefree demeanour.

Reaching the crowd, Shiro was drawn into many embraces, receiving countless kisses on the cheek, plastering his face in crimson lip marks. A wave of ‘happy birthday’s echoed through the group, everyone fighting for a turn to talk to Shiro. Keith looked around uneasily, unsure of what to do with himself, where to look. People were casting him curious glances, but he kept his eyes firmly down, not wishing to invite anyone into conversation. He eyed the bar for a moment, considering whether or not liquid courage would be a good idea. But this crowd was suffocating: he was outnumbered by people he didn’t know. Eyes prying, minds forming an opinion of him that he had no control over – his chest tightened. It was overwhelming.

He caught Shiro’s eye and gestured towards the bar, just to let him know where he had gone.

He leaned against the polished bar top, the paint chipped away in places after decades of having glasses slammed down on it. He thumbed at the flaking paint, exasperating the issue.

“You look like you’re having fun.” A familiar voice said to his side.

Keith scowled at Adam as he threw an arm around his shoulders. Brandy was strong on his breath, and Keith shrugged him off. “Oodles,” He replied dryly.

Adam chuckled, “I told Shiro this wasn’t your scene. Still,” He said, nudging his shoulder, “I’m glad you came. Shiro wouldn’t be able to enjoy himself if you weren’t here.

Keith rolled his eyes, “We both know that isn’t true.”

“Kei-”

Adam’s imminent pep talk was interrupted as the barman appeared before the pair, wearing more glitter across his cheekbones and eyeliner winging out from his lids than Keith would have expected from someone who was just here to mix drinks. “Adam,” The barman teased, “What are you doing, flirting while at your own boyfriend’s birthday party. Naughty!”

Adam grinned, clearly sliding into some kind of familiar, predetermined banter. “You’re one to talk – every second word out of your mouth is a flirtation.”

The barman’s hand flew to his chest as he gasped dramatically. “Oh how you wound me!” He cried, swooning slightly.

Keith’s nose wrinkled at this loud creature, now growing desperate for a whisky to be in his hand. “Excuse me-”

The bar tender was suddenly crowding into his personal space, blue eyes filling Keith’s vision. There was an easy smile on the man’s lips, a glint in those wide eyes. Keith’s breath caught for a second, out of sheer surprise. His cheeks flashed crimson as the bartender said, “What you after, hot stuff?” with a smooth drawl to his words.

“I-” Keith stuttered, feeling foolish. He felt his eyes turning owlish and he coughed as though to clear his throat, breaking the eye contact. “Ah, erm-”

God, what was _wrong_ with him?

The bartender’s grin only grew, clearly amused by Keith’s reaction. He winked at Keith. “Cute,” He remarked.

Adam barked a laugh. “Get us a couple of whiskeys.”

The bartender raised a brow, “And another brandy?”

Adam nodded in agreement, bringing his glass to his lips to drain it.

Keith was trying to get his brain started again, not sure what had caused it to short circuit in such a way. With his personal space returned, he took a deep breath and tried to regroup.

Adam smirked in his direction, eyes flickering between the bartender and Keith. “You doing okay there?” He asked, innocently.

“Shut up,” Keith snapped.

The bartender returned, slender fingers cradling four glasses. He gently placed them down, waving Keith off as he reached for his wallet. “Free bar,” He pointed out, before taking one of the glasses and draining it in one.

“Should you be drinking?” Keith couldn’t keep himself from asking, “Aren’t you working?”

The empty glass hit the bar top, and the bartender took a moment to compose himself after the shot, the shiver of the strong alcohol working its way visibly down his spine. “I’m here out of the kindness of my own heart.” He leaned his elbows down on the bar top, chin resting on a curled hand as he eyed the crowd of employees still fawning over Shiro. “Someone needed to cover the bar, so a few of us are taking shifts for the night.”

“Wow, that’s, uh..” Keith was grasping for words, Shiro’s warning of ‘be nice’ ringing in his ears. “That’s really kind of you.”

That brought a grin curling to his lips. “Yeah, I’m a saint.”

“Such a saint,” Adam echoed with a roll of his eyes. “I’m sure the unlimited access to copious amounts of alcohol isn’t helping you cope.”

The bartender had pulled another bottle of whiskey from below the bar, and was busy pouring himself another hefty measure into his empty glass. Upon hearing Adam’s words his eyes flicked up to hold his gaze. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” He said slyly, continuing to pour the whiskey without pause.

Keith sipped at his spirit, fascinated by the two men. He was always carefully withdrawn with Adam: with everyone, except Shiro. He wasn’t sure how to talk to them, what he was supposed to say that would interest them, or make them smile. Conversations like this, he could only dream up when he put pen to paper.

And here these two were, bantering back and forth with such ease, Keith didn’t know that conversations like this could even take place outside of a book.

He couldn’t help it.

He found himself laughing at the bartender’s comment.

While the bartender looked pleased as he put the bottle away, it was Adam that was giving him a strange look. It was rare for Keith to let out such an unsolicited emotional reaction, yet here he was – practically _giggling_ next to him.

Keith blamed it on the whiskey once he had a handle on his reaction. He hadn’t drank in a while – that initial sip must have gone straight to his head.

Adam had caught himself, trying not to have such a reaction to what should be a normal behaviour. He reached forwards and took the spare whiskey glass in his hand. “I had better make sure Shiro is supplied with alcohol,” He said, a soft smile on his face. Keith began to move as well, set to remain by Adam’s side, but the older man waved him off. “I haven’t had a chance to wish him a Happy Birthday yet.” His smile shifted into a shameless grin, “You might not want to be present to hear it.”

Keith’s lip curled in disgust, and he turned back to his whiskey. Adam giggled and walked away, pleased with himself. While he did want to talk to Shiro, he was mostly interested in letting Keith continue with this interaction. When Shiro had first introduced them, the more Adam had tried to get to know Keith the more the other boy had held him at a distance. It had taken a long time – and consistent advice from Shiro to ‘just not care’ – before Keith had warmed to him and would willingly interject into conversation with his own comments. From what Shiro had said, this was standard Keith practice and nothing to worry about.

Which would stand to reason that this was _not_ how Keith usually approached new people.

And Adam was interested in letting the scene play out.

As he walked away, the bartender watched him go. “So how do you know Adam?” He enquired, his attention returning to focus on Keith. Keith found his cheeks flashing and he averted his gaze from the probing stare.

Jesus, he couldn’t hold his whiskey.

“Another good question,” The bartender continued without giving him the chance to answer. “What’s your name? I haven’t seen you around here before. You’re not some kind of party crasher, are you?” The bartender’s eyebrow raised, face painted with mock suspicion.

Keith scoffed. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if I had any choice in the matter.”

“Ah, an unwilling party guest…” The bartender tapped his chin, peering at the crowd of colleagues as though summing up his suspects. A knowing glint flashed in his eyes, and he looked back to Keith with a smirk, “Tell me how you know Adam.”

Keith grew cautious, that smirk unnerving him. “He’s my flatmate’s boyfriend?” The statement sounding like a question, as though he wasn’t sure anymore.

He didn’t expect a response beyond a thoughtful nod.

He really didn’t expect the creature behind the bar to start screeching.

Keith flinched violently, his back snapping straight. The bartender was still squealing, long-fingered hands reaching forward to clasp Keith’s in his own.

“You’re Keith!” The bartender yelled, drawing attention from the party all the way across the room. Keith’s face was growing hot, and he tried to snatch his hands back and away from the barman.

“Yes, yes – I’m Keith!” He snapped, still trying to remove his hands from the other boy’s.

The bartender was grinning, “I am so glad I finally got to meet you! Shiro has told me so much about you.”

Keith internally groaned. He _knew_ this was a bad idea – what if everyone was as dramatic as this guy? This was just a bartender – what was going to happen when he met one of the performers?

How much was Shiro even talking about him?

“I’m sure he has,” Keith said, finally managing to drag his hands away from the other’s. He kept his back firmly to the party behind him, fixing his eyes down on the bar top, desperate for the floor to open up and drag him down into the cold darkness of the Earth. He just knew people would be staring at him, wondering what was so interesting about him that had the bartender yelling.

One look at Keith’s face and the bartender instantly sobered his reaction, calming himself. “Sorry,” He said, looking apologetic. “It’s just…Shiro talks about you all the time. It’s really nice to finally get to meet you.”

“That’s nice of you to say,” He muttered, still afraid to look beyond his whiskey glass.

The bartender leaned down, trying to catch his gaze. He smiled – something different to the smiles he had previously cycled through. It was a soft smile, that felt much more genuine. The expressions he had worn before were for the customer, but this…this was a glimpse behind a mask. That smile drew Keith in, lighting a fire of intrigue. Who even was this guy? Why was he sitting here with someone he didn’t know instead of fixing himself like a leach to Shiro’s side.

He didn’t usually act like this.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to think.

Keith opened his mouth to say something else, feeling slightly less defensive. While he was in foreign waters from how he would usually act, he was morbidly curious to find out what would happen if he just let himself dive in. “Wha-”

“Keith!” He heard a voice boom across the room. His head ducked down to his chest and covered his face with his hand. All his concerns and fears about becoming the centre of attention were fully realised as Shiro called to him.

“Keith!” He shouted again, and the bartender chuckled lightly.

“Sounds like you’re being summoned.” He pointed out, as though there were a chance in hell that Keith hadn’t heard Shiro.

Keith grumbled under his breath, refusing to remove his hands and show the scarlet shade his cheeks had turned.

Another soft chuckle, before Keith heard the sound of a cork and the chink of glass on glass. He risked opening his eyes to see the bartender topping up his whiskey with a generous measure. Keith met his eye, raising an eyebrow.

The bartender retracted the bottle, bringing it to his own lips for a large mouthful. “Whiskey,” He grinned, settling the bottle down, “The answer to all of life’s problems.”

“Sounds like a dangerous philosophy to live by,” Keith remarked, bringing his glass up for a sip.

The bartender shook his head with disappointment. “That’s supposed to be a shot - for courage. Here,” He said, reaching forwards to tip the base of the glass as though to help. Keith spluttered as whiskey quickly filled his mouth, amber liquid overflowing and dripping down his chin. He protested as the bartender pushed the glass ever higher until every drop was either in his mouth, or splattering onto his shirt. The glass was removed and Keith had trouble swallowing his overladen mouth. He had to mentally prepare himself for the burn before successfully managing to do it, after which he slapped a hand on the bar top and opened his mouth in a loud wheeze.

“ _What_ ,” He snapped, throat burning with each syllable, “ _Was that?”_

The bartender grinned devilishly, and Keith’s gut clenched.

Damned whiskey.

“A helping hand,” Was all he said before topping up the glass once more. He cast a look over Keith’s shoulder and inclined his head, “You had best run, the crowd is getting restless.”

Keith spared a glance to find Shiro waving him over, small group clustered around him. Already Keith was reaching for another gulp of whiskey.

“You look like a man about to be thrown to the lions,” His companion remarked.

Keith grimaced. “Lions would be preferable,” He grumbled before pushing himself away from the bar. On second thoughts he reached back into his pocket to pull out the meagre funds he had brought with himself for the evening. He grabbed a note and dropped it on the bar top.

“Thanks,” He said.

The bartender stared at the money quizzically. He pushed it back towards Keith with a raised brow, “Free bar, remember?”

Keith felt the corner of his mouth turn up. “I remember,” He said before walking away without another word.

The closer he got to the partying group, the more his gut clenched and churned. That shot of whiskey was not sitting well in his stomach as it started flip-flopping. Shiro was grinning, arm thrown across the shoulders of a white-haired girl clad in a golden dress that wrapped around close to her body. He was whispering in her ear, glass hanging lazily in his hand. She was looking Keith up and down, eyes crawling over every detail. He was suddenly very aware of the whiskey droplets staining his shirt.

He came to stand before the two of them rather sheepishly, his face already burning and throat clenching.

“Keith, this is Allura.” Shiro introduced the woman at his side with a flurried hand gesture.

“Uh – hey.” Keith gave a small awkward wave before forcing his hand back down by his side.

Keith watched Shiro’s whole face fall with exasperation, the hand not resting on Allura’s shoulder coming up to cover his face. “Keith, what did we practise?” He prompted.

“Oh, um,” Keith stammered, desperate to get his brain working through the whiskey-induced haze that was slowly, but surely, falling. “It’s nice to meet you?”

Allura laughed, mouth wide enough for Keith to make out the pearly white molars nestled in the back. “You don’t sound too sure about that,” She teased, grin firmly set in place.

Keith shuffled his feet uncomfortably, feeling awkward. “Sorry-”

“Its okay, I’m only joking!” She assured. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

Keith found himself extending a hand without much thought. “I’m Keith.”

Shiro _groaned._ “She already knows that, Keith.”

His cheeks flashed and he brought his glass up to mouth, if only to keep him from continuing to talk.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” She said encouragingly, twirling a long pale strand through her fingers. “Seems like you’ve known Shiro forever.”

He felt the corner of his mouth turn up. “Seems like it,” He nodded. “I can barely remember a time without him with me.”

“I’m just too good to get rid of,” Shiro said with a wink.

“You can say that again,” Said Adam, winding his arms around Shiro’s waist from behind, planting a light kiss on the side of Shiro’s neck. Grinning, Shiro retracted his arm from Allura to take a drink.

Allura laughed, and Keith felt like he could grab a breath as the attention moved away from him. He took another sip, trying to remember to pace himself. He couldn’t just take a drink every time he felt uncomfortable – if he did, he would be on the ground in two seconds flat.

Watching Shiro smiling easily around these people, Keith felt guilty. Allura and Shiro had been close friends – and stage partners – for several years now. And while Adam had only graced the scene about six months ago this relationship was clearly very different from the others Shiro had had in the past. These were important people in Shiro’s life, and because of Keith’s personal hang ups the older man had let him keep his distance. It took him long enough to introduce Adam to him, scared that Keith’s awkward reaction would have Adam thinking that he didn’t like him. That he wasn’t interested in knowing him, when really he would rather stay on the side lines than interact and make a fool of himself.

And Keith could see himself doing the same thing here, remaining on the edge of the conversation and simply listening. Spectating, not wanting to be included.

While Shiro could try and hide it, Keith could see the quick glance cast in his direction every few minutes: checking in, trying to work out how much he’s hating this.

It was Shiro’s party – he shouldn’t have to worry about Keith not enjoying himself.

It was Shiro’s party – Keith _should_ be enjoying himself.

Staring at his glass, he upended it like the bartender and drained the remaining liquid in one gulp. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then found himself tapping Allura lightly on the shoulder, drawing her attention from the couple that were staring at each other all doe-eyed.

“So,” He started, tongue thick and confused as he willingly entered into conversation, “You’re a dancer?”

He knew the answer to the question. She knew that he knew the answer to the question. But he didn’t know what else to say.

Politely, Allura nodded. “Yep, been here almost ten years – ever since my brother took over the business.”

“Oh,” Keith said, “I didn’t know that you were Coran’s sister.”

In all the years that Shiro had told him about the club, the number of times Allura and Coran’s names came up in conversation, not once had Keith realised that they were related. Shiro would tell stories of how headstrong Allura was when sharing her opinions with the club owner – guess now he knew why she was so up front.

She smiled. “The one and only. I like to say we co-manage this place, but I’m not sure he would be so inclined to agree…” She lifted a glass of wine from the table at her side up to her lips, sipping lightly. “So what do you do, Keith? Shiro has always kept an air of mystery surrounding you.”

Keith opened his mouth, pausing to consider the answer to the question. He did a lot: whatever jobs turned up, largely manual labour. Work that set exhaustion deep into your bones, that caused your muscles to shake under the strain and have you dreaming of a bed to collapse down into. He worked, he earned enough money to pay his half of the rent, to pay for enough food to get by. That was what he did.

It’s not what he wanted to do, not what he enjoyed doing. Any spare money was spent on supplies: on sheets of paper, pots of ink, sharp quills with dark feathers and elegant points. But that was private – not even Shiro knew of his true dreams, his wants for life.

He had faced enough disappointment in his life, he wasn’t about to publicise the one thing that brought him joy and tempt fate to take it from him. It had happened one too many times before.

So instead he shrugged, and answered with, “Just this and that. Whatever turns up and pays half decently.”

Allura nodded thoughtfully, but had no follow up questions. It was a carefully designed response – he didn’t like to talk about what he did. Especially in the past where his means of getting by were…not exactly legal.

Glancing around the room, the strategies for successfully pickpocketing this entire crowd rose unbidden in his mind. He brought his attention back to the conversation at hand, convincing himself that the past was in the past. And that it would stay there.

They were on the straight and narrow now, he and Shiro. Shiro loved his job, and Keith was just enjoying not being on the brink of starving to death. Things were working out.

“Well if you want something that pays regularly, we’re always looking for a decent set of hands on the bar,” Allura offered offhandedly, acting as though she didn’t care what his response was.

But Keith saw through the offer. Shiro had moaned at him enough times to get a job with him at the club that he was certain he would have badgered Allura to get him hired. The unsolicited job offer had Shiro all over it.

“Thank you,” He said, trying to sound grateful, “But bar work isn’t exactly my scene.”

“Well, you could always dance?” She suggested. “How are your moves?”

“My…moves?”

“Non-existent,” Shiro interjected, chuckling. “But I think he would make an excellent bartender-”

“She’s already given me the spiel, Shiro,” Keith scowled. “Knock it off.”

Shiro held his hands up in surrender, mouthing a quick ‘thanks anyway’ to Allura.

“Better take our seats, Shiro,” Adam said, still resting his chin on Shiro’s shoulder. “It’ll be starting soon.”

Shiro let himself be dragged away by his persistent boyfriend, the two stumbling as they tried to walk backwards together, Adam refusing to let go of his waist.

Keith stared after them, confused. “What’s starting soon?” He asked Allura who had remained by his side.

“The show,” She said as though it were obvious.

Keith raised a single eyebrow at her.

“The show? For the birthday boy?” She continued, waiting for recognition to strike Keith.

He remained silent.

She threw an arm over his shoulder and started leading him in the direction Shiro had taken. All around him guests were beginning to take their seats as well, eagerly glancing at the stage for any movement. “It’s a tradition,” Allura explained, weaving them expertly around meandering bodies in their way. She led him easily and with confidence, her ability as a dancer apparent. “It’s what the club gives as a birthday gift – we put together a few acts into a small show in honour of whoever’s birthday it is. It’s not much, but everyone seems to enjoy it. That, and the free bar of course.”

Keith looked up at the stage. The small band were rearranging, a broad man taking to the stage to settle at the piano, shifting at the stool to get comfortable. He pressed a few keys on the instrument, each of the players in the band echoing back identical notes. Another fact he felt ashamed to admit: he had never seen Shiro perform. He had found his flatmate practicing in their communal spaces, or warming up his voice in the shower, but he had never seen the man in an actual show. He wasn’t entirely sure what constituted as entertainment here: discomfort at not knowing what was coming prickled at his neck.

“What acts are there going to be?” He found himself asking, hoping to be able to prepare himself for what he was about to see.

Allura felt his hesitation and pushed him on faster, his whiskey-laden legs threatening to trip him up. The large measures were beginning to hit now, but to his dismay it only seeming to be fuelling his stress as opposed to remedying it. “It’s a surprise. Come on, I’ve saved you a seat by Shiro. Right in the middle of the action!”

She was grinning, but her statement brought him to a grinding halt. He shook his head, “No way. I don’t want to be anywhere near the action!”

Allura tugged at his arm, “Come on Keith, you’ll enjoy it!”

He simply continued to shake his head. “No thanks.”

It was clear he wasn’t moving anywhere. His mouth was screwed into a tight frown, and his eyes flashed dangerously as though challenging her to push him.

She huffed. “Fine, I guess I’ll steal your seat. But at least you make sure you get a decent view!”

She didn’t hang around after that, clearly able to identify a lost cause when she saw one. She slipped away into the throng of people, her golden dress disappearing between bodies.

With her gone, Keith could breathe a sigh easier. This was all a bit much for him – he was almost glad for the show if it would give him some time where he didn’t have to talk to anyone. He wandered through the collection of tables, trying to find one that wasn’t completely empty (Shiro would feel guilty if Keith ended up acting like a loner) but that had just a few people at it who were unlikely to talk to him.

Technically he was sitting at one of the tables closest to the stage: however, it was set to the far righthand side, right beside the stairs that led down from the raised platform. It was so skewed to the side that most people were clustered in the centre and the space was practically vacant. The only people he shared the table with were a young couple that seemed far more interested in each other than who had pulled up a chair near them.

Keith rested an elbow on the table and set his chin in his hand, eyeing the stage cautiously. The band had grown silent, and he guessed that meant the show would be starting soon.

A tap on his shoulder had him turning as Adam placed another glass of whiskey down in front of him, balancing another three drinks in his arms. “Enjoy the show,” He said with a wink. “Come join us after, if you want.”

Keith nodded at him appreciatively, raising a glass to him as he moved away.

He had to admit he did like Adam. Just in his own way…

And that way was generally far, far away from people.

There was a ruckus a few tables over that drew Keith’s attention away from the stage, and he peered over curiously. Allura was standing and shouting, gesturing towards a chair settled on top of the table in full view. Next to her stood Shiro, adamantly shaking his head. She said something else to him and he crossed his arms. Keith could make out Shiro’s lips mouthing ‘no way’. But before Allura could respond a large, heavily muscled man came up behind Shiro and lifted him like he weighed nothing.

Shiro squawked loudly as the man holding him carefully stepped onto a chair and then onto the table, moving with far more elegance than Keith thought possible – especially while grasping a struggling Shiro. The birthday boy was laughing despite himself, swatting lightly at his friend’s arm. He was unceremoniously dumped in the chair. He looked like he was about to stand, but one look from Allura had him returning to his chair, sitting high above the rest of the partygoers. Allura looked smug as the turned away and returned to her seat.

Shiro looked mortified, waving awkwardly at people he caught the gaze of. He looked around and caught Keith’s eye, mouthing a silent ‘help me’. Keith shook his head with a quiet chuckle, glad more than ever he had decided to avoid their table.

Keith was in the process of bringing his fresh glass to his mouth when, in the blink of an eye, the hall suddenly went dark.

Not just dark.

_Black._

His hand stilled, the scent of whiskey filling his nose. What was going on? He gently settled the glass back on the table, stomach full of apprehension.

In the darkness, there were excited whispers coming from the party guests, chairs scraping as people settled themselves. Keith clasped his hands together on the table, wide eyes looking in the direction of the stage for any clue as to what was going to happen next.

There was a short drum fill, alone for a moment, before brass and bass joined in, piano keys tinkling lightly. They played a short intro of unhurried jazz into the pitch black, and the tables around Keith grew silent.

A searing white blaze of light suddenly shot down from above, the spotlight aimed towards the band.

Only the band wasn’t what the crowd were looking at.

Standing in front of the band at the far left of the stage, resting a light hand on the shoulder of the piano player and keeping their back to the party, stood who Keith presumed was the first performer of the evening.

_‘Baby, can’t you see_

_I’m calling_

_A guy like you should wear a warning_

_It’s dangerous_

_I’m falling.’_

The voice was slow, sultry. Unhurried in it’s pace, as if sure of itself and knowing that the band would hang off of their every syllable.

It was a man: tall, with what looked like short brunette hair, Though, it was hard to see under the black top hat the performer was wearing, a sparkling band of glittering stones encircling the base of the crown. His corset wascoated with the same sparkling gems as his hat, arranged down his torso as though they were the silver scales of a serpent, delicate straps tracing over the peaks of his shoulders. Black satin gloves covered him from fingertips up towards his shoulder. The corset extended down over his hips, a black skirt adorned with sparkling tassels hanging lightly down to his knees: as he gently swayed his hips, the tassels shifted and glittered, seeming as though they were living creatures, craving the spotlight. Black, closely meshed tights encased his legs, ending in a simple pair of black heels. In a heartbeat, Keith’s eyes glided across the singing performer. Somehow he was already entranced, drawn in by this shining, glittering creature in the vast expanse of darkness.

_‘You’re dangerous_

_I’m loving it.’_

At this point the band played a small phrase, and the performer finally turned to face the crowd.

The scaled effect on his back extended around the front, only the fabric folded over into black lapels crested with stars and swirls at his chest. The skirt that seemed full from the back raised up and ended at his hip bones, the space between filled with shimmering tassels like those in the back. Every movement was a story, a ripple of light as silver caught the glare of the stage lights above.

_‘Too high_

_Can’t come down’_

But it wasn’t until Keith dared glance at his face that he truly lost his breath.

Glittering cheekbones, eyes lidded with gently swooping eyeliner. Only now his lips were blood red, a stark contrast in the blazing white light. The microphone was held delicately in front of his moving lips, each and every word carefully crafted, precise.

_‘Do you feel me now?’_

It seemed the bartender did more than just serve drinks.

The voice, the shimmering body, the confidence that oozed from him in waves – Keith was transfixed. The building could set ablaze right now, and he would die right here, staring unblinking at the stage as he was turned to ash. And he would regret nothing, as long as this was the last sight he would see.

He swallowed around an uncomfortable lump in his throat, chasing it with a sip of whiskey he had to focus absurdly hard not to choke on.

The singer started moving, the spotlight dragging along with him as he made his way to the centre of the stage leisurely, the coil of the microphone cable flowing behind him.

_‘The taste of your lips_

_I’m on a ride_

_You’re toxic_

_I’m slipping under.’_

He walked as though the ground should feel honoured to bear his weight, each step intricately placed. Once in the centre of the stage, he turned and zeroed Shiro in his gaze, letting the full weight of his stare settle on him. Keith found himself leaning forwards, entranced as to what it would be like to be caught in his sight.

_‘With the taste of a poison paradise_

_I’m addicted to you_

_Don’t you know that you’re toxic?’_

He let his voice fade out, the band in full swing for a moment. But that gaze didn’t lift from where it settled on Shiro, like a predator evaluating their prey. A look that said there’s no escaping what’s coming – best to accept your fate.

As he began to sing again, he stepped forwards, making his way towards the edge of the stage. With each line, he took another step, taking his time, knowing full well that every eye in the house would be focused on him, breaths baited as he slowly edged closer.

_‘It’s getting late_

_To give you up_

_I took a sip_

_From my devil’s cup’._

Keith’s breath caught as, without thought, the singer took another step forwards, this one causing his foot to dangle out into open space beyond the stage.

_‘Slowly, it’s taking over me.’_

The foot landed on Shiro’s table with a delicate ‘thunk’, the sound almost lost amongst the music. The performer closed in on Shiro, reaching a delicate hand out to cup his chin.

_‘Too high_

_Can’t come down.’_

He dragged Shiro’s face up, keeping that firm grasp on his chin. Shiro’s eyes grew wide as he took in the proximity of the performer, their encompassing attitude seemingly halting his entire thought process.

There were hoots and hollers from the crowd, and Keith felt an overwhelming urge to ‘shush’ them.

The singer’s face dropped lower, lower still, lips so _so_ close to grazing Shiro’s. Here, the red lips split into a grin, refusing to close the short distance between them.

_‘The taste of your lips_

_I’m on a ride._

_You’re toxic_

_I’m slipping under.’_

The singer had released Shiro’s chin, the man almost looking disappointed at the loss of contact. Smirking, the singer moved around behind Shiro, draping himself over his broad shoulders and slipping a hand down his chest. The microphone remained close enough to catch his next words, but they were directed into Shiro’s ear as though they were only meant for him.

_‘I’m addicted to you_

_Don’t you know that you’re toxic?’_

With that the performer stood, turning his back on Shiro and addressing the rest of the room once again. He grinned a devilish smirk, and held out an expectant hand. Instantly Adam stood, vacating his seat and offering his arm as support. With barely a glance, the performer delicately stepped to the chair and then the ground, not sparing Adam a glance before moving amongst the tables, somehow keeping his microphone cable from tangling.

_‘And I love what you do_

_Don’t you know that you’re toxic?’_

He didn’t miss a beat, sauntering amongst the crowd, winking at colleagues as they wolf-whistled at him. Swimming in the attention of the crowd, something seemed to occur to the singer as he suddenly stood to attention, eyes scanning. He turned, walking back to the stage, eyes still searching.

That’s when they landed on Keith, and he felt himself physically gulp.

It felt like he was in a dream, paralysed, as this otherworldly entity made it’s way towards him, looking to him as though nothing else in the world existed. Keith was frozen in that stare, feeling as though he were falling straight off of the edge of the world.

The performer was standing before him, and he couldn’t keep his breath from hitching, struggling in the wake of his pounding heartbeat.

He stepped forwards, and Keith was powerless as the singer settled himself across his lap, draping an arm across his shoulders. The man’s face came in close, _too close,_ pressing ruby red lips to the edge of Keith’s mouth before hastily pulling away.

The singer grinned, still keeping Keith’s eyes enraptured, watching intently as his pupils dilated.

_‘With the taste of your lips_

_I’m on a ride.’_

He ran a hand through Keith’s hair, clutching the long locks in a fist and forcing his head back, mouth opening in surprise.

_‘You’re toxic_

_I’m slipping under’._

Keith couldn’t deny it, his breath was coming fast and hard now, chest rising and falling with each burst of air.

The singer released his hair, giving him a look that warned against moving his head back. Keith didn’t move, feeling oddly vulnerable with his neck exposed.

Gently, the singer pulled at his bowtie, tugging at the knot until the cloth strands separated. His slender fingers played with the top button, releasing its tight hold on Keith’s neck. Then the second button was released, the collar being pushed back. Yet Keith felt no relief: as the singer loomed closer he still felt like he couldn’t catch his breath. His mouth, his teeth, dipped lower to the soft skin of his throat.

_‘The taste of a poisoned paradise.’_

Suddenly the singer struck, leaning forwards to place his lips on the side of Keith’s throat, sucking gently before moving away.

He met Keith’s eyes again, only this time they were glassy, unfocussed - fluttering eyelashes hanging low.

_‘I’m addicted to you_

_Don’t you know that you’re toxic?’_

The singer suddenly moved, lightly grasping Keith’s throat with his hand. He was right up in Keith’s face, crowding his vision, as he sang:

_‘Intoxicate me now_

_With your loving now_

_I think I’m ready now_

_I think I’m ready now.’_

And then the hand at the throat was gone, the warmth and heaviness of the other’s body removed from his lap. Keith blinked, trying to bring him back to himself as he watched the singer, the bartender, make his way up the stairs back onto the stage, not sparing him so much as another glance.

_‘Intoxicate me yeah_

_With your loving_

_I’m addicted to you…’_

The final word was drawn out as he reached the stage again, the band keeping him in their sights for when they should follow. For a moment he milked it, enjoying the control he held over the band, the crowd. He cast one more glance over the audience,

_‘Don’t you know,’_

His gaze landed on Keith, and remained there, boring into him.

_‘That you’re toxic?’_

With that, the spotlight switched off and the stage was plunged back into darkness. Silvery after images danced across Keith’s vision, and for the first time in hours he felt like he could catch his breath.

*****

The show continues on with a few more acts: groups of tap dancers moving in sync, a few more singers (though none made quite as much of an impact on Keith as the first), the show ending with a tightly choreographed dance between Allura and a tall, ginger man with a moustache. The man had blue smeared under his eyes, and Allura mirrored him with sparkling pink. The two twirled effortlessly on stage, moving as though they were one with such fluidity that Keith struggled to keep up with them.

And with that it’s over, and the lights come back up. After all this time sitting tensely, trying to process his thoughts, Keith makes it shakily to his legs. He makes his way to the centre table, approaching as Adam is giving Shiro a hand down from his place of honour.

He joined the pair of them, smirking at Shiro’s beaming smile, cheeks still rosy from all the attention. He kept glancing around, looking for the performers to join the group so he could thank them.

Adam handed over a small parcel, slipping it into Shiro’s jacket pocket. “Happy birthday,” He murmured in his ear, dropping a light kiss to Shiro’s cheek. Shiro’s cheeks instantly flushed, stammering that Adam didn’t need to get him anything, that it was way too thoughtful.

Keith understood.

The two of them didn’t do gifts. Never had. When you spend the better part of your days wasting away on the streets, you don’t exactly feel in the right mood for celebrating unnecessary days. Presents will make Shiro feel guilty, or unworthy. That he wasn’t worth the time, the money.

Keith understood – it was exactly how he would feel too.

Shiro’s eyes slid to meet Keith’s, and the taller man’s uncomfortable expression cracked into a grin, a laugh working its way out of his chest. Adam followed Shiro’s line of sight and devolved into the same snickering, causing Keith’s hair to stand up on end.

He ground his teeth, displeased. “What’s so funny,” He said through a clenched jaw.

“Looks like you let Lance get a bit too close,” said Shiro with a shit-eating grin.

With that, Keith raised his hand to the corner of his mouth, feeling the slightly sticky residue of what was surely blood-red lipstick. Keith rubbed at it furiously with the back of his hand, succeeding in smearing it further. Although he was still grinning, Shiro was at least helpful enough to hand Keith a handkerchief over to rub at the make-up.

“What is this stuff made of?” Keith grumbled, scrubbing hard enough to turn his skin a stark pink.

“Think you’ve got most of it,” Adam said. Keith stopped rubbing at his face, but wished he had a mirror to double check: he couldn’t believe he was completely rid of the mark until he saw for himself. He handed the pink-tinged handkerchief back over and straightened up, trying to calm the blush in his cheeks. He reached up to run a hand through his hair only to find the dark strands sticking up in a chaotic disarray. A memory of the singer gripping tightly to the back of his head flashed though his mind, forcing him to offer access to his throat…

The thought only made him blush harder, and he hastily combed his fingers through the mess in a bid to calm it.

Shiro faux pouted as he watched him battle with the mess. “I rather liked the new hairstyle,” He said with a wink.

Keith practically growled at him.

With that, Allura bounded back amongst the group, still keyed up after her performance. While she and Shiro embraced, whispering words of thanks in her ear, Keith’s breath stuttered in his chest, his body locking up.

The singer was standing behind Allura chatting easily with Adam, waiting on his turn to talk to Shiro.

When he had been behind the bar, Keith was fine. Completely, and utterly, fine…

He had attempted to flirt a little, sure. But besides that he was _fine._

But now…

His gut was clenching, making him feel both nauseous and exceptionally dizzy. He leant a hand down to brace himself on the table at his side, legs turning shaky all over again. He tried to draw a slow breath into his lungs, but the symptoms did not abate.

Maybe the whiskey had been a bad idea after all?

Fresh air. He needed fresh air. Shiro had released Allura and had drawn the unknown singer into a close hug as well, and while they were distracted Keith slipped away, avoiding the glance Adam sent his way. He slipped through the crowd easily, glad that Shiro was preoccupied with the performers all streaming in from the dressing rooms. While Keith appreciated Shiro always being there looking out for him, sometimes it could get rather cumbersome. Sometime he just didn’t feel like talking – or, he simply didn’t know what he was supposed to say, how to put into words what he was feeling.

Like right now. He had no idea where to start detangling his mixed up thoughts, not sure what feeling was prompting what reaction in his body. He felt like a jumbled mess: as though someone had reached inside to the woven pattern of his being and started pulling the fibres apart, leaving thread lying unravelled and confused.

He desperately wanted to go home, to run over what had happened and establish what was going on with him. But he knew he shouldn’t just leave – and it wasn’t like he was looking forward to sorting through the mess. Whatever this was, he felt like he should leave it alone.

Ignorance was bliss, right?

His feet took him down the familiar pathway to the side door where performers entered from the street. He slid the bolt back and slipped outside, grateful for the cool breeze of the evening. He realised his collar was still unbuttoned, the bowtie lying abandoned, but he couldn’t bring himself to fix his dishevelled appearance.

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the cool stone of the building, resting his head and trying to calm his racing thoughts.

There were a few things he had to admit to himself before he could continue on. 1) the bartender was cute. That information was a given, and Keith tried to convince himself that that was simply an objective observation that any human with eyes would agree with. 2) He had gotten way too caught up in the performance. This he strongly agreed with: it was the performer’s job to put on a show, to appear as sultry and inviting, to toy with the audience and draw reactions from them. This thought particularly calmed Keith – that even though he had made a fool of himself for buying into the performance, at least the act was designed to do just that and the performer wasn’t being serious.

Which brought him to his final thought. 3) Despite how much he wanted to deny it, that performance had an effect on him. What effect, he wasn’t sure. But something about it, about that singer, had piqued his interest.

These were facts he had to consider and think through before he could sort his racing mind out, and move past this awful night.

“You want one?” A soft voice said to his side, appearing from thin air.

Keith yelped, eyes flying open as he pushed away from the wall, away from the sudden noise. The singer stood next to him – barely a hand’s breadth away – biting his lip to keep from snickering. He shook his hand, once, rattling a box of cigarettes in Keith’s direction. “Well?” He offered again, as though he hadn’t just scared the shit out of Keith.

Keith gulped in a lungful of air, hearing his heart pound in his ears, and slowly shook his head. He wasn’t one to smoke – not to mention it was probably a bad idea considering he could barely manage to breathe normally without adding tobacco into the mix.

The singer shrugged, moving gracefully as he brought a cigarette to his mouth and fumbled to light a match. Filter poised between his lips, he grumbled to himself as he struggled to spark a flame, snapping one, two, three matches in the process. He threw the splintered wood to the floor each time, growing more and more agitated with himself.

Keith moved without thinking, unable to keep watching this display. He plucked the box from the other’s fingers, managing to strike a small flame on his first try. He held the match between them, watching the weak flickering light dance across the singer’s features. He hadn’t washed off the glitter from the show, his skin glinting softly as though he were an ethereal being.

The lump returned to Keith’s throat, and he found himself blushing once again.

They held each other’s gaze, neither one of them moving, until the flame almost burned down to Keith’s fingertips before flickering out, barely missing scorching his fingers.

“You’re, um-” Keith’s throat was so dry, words lumpy and heavy on his tongue. “You’re supposed to light your cigarette.”

With that, whatever trance had come across the two of them broke, and the singer burst into a peal of laughter, bringing a hand to his cheek bashfully. “Sorry,” He said. “Can you strike up another?”

Keith numbly nodded, striking a match on command and holding it out. This time the singer bent towards the flame, holding his cigarette still until the end of it smouldered. He moved away from Keith, taking a long slow drag before tipping his head back and letting the smoke lazily float from his open mouth.

The singer’s eyes flicked sideways to Keith, and he grinned. “You okay? It seems every time I’ve seen you tonight you’ve been blushing.”

Keith broke the look, incredibly embarrassed as his cheeks flamed hotter and hotter.

“If it’s a complexion issue, I’m sure I can give you something to remedy it,” The singer offered with a sly grin, taking another drag.

Keith shook his head slowly, “No. I’m just…it’s just far too hot in there. Needed some air.” He wasn’t sure he sounded wholly convincing, but he made sure to leave the impression that he didn’t want to discuss it further. “Thanks though.”

The singer nodded, giving no indication whether he believed him or not. “No problem, Red.”

They stood in easy silence for a minute, Keith both enjoying the quiet while trying desperately to think of something to say. The singer didn’t seem to mind, not pressing for conversation, as the glowing ember of the cigarette grew closer to his slender fingers, ash drifting away in the steady evening breeze.

“You’re very talented,” Keith said, “Your act. It was very…you were great.”

The singer’s mouth curled into a well-practised smile, donning the face he always wore when receiving a spectator’s praise. “That’s very kind – thank you.” But his tone didn’t feel like it matched his words. Like the facial expression, these were well-worn words handed out to fans after shows, the praises not something to be registered.

“Shiro looked like he enjoyed it,” Keith said.

This earned him a concerned brow raise, cigarette frozen inches away from red lips. “And you didn’t?”

Keith spluttered – had to bite his tongue to reset his brain from continuing to babble. “No, uh- you were- I thought it was great,” He assured, trying to sound genuine. “Honestly, you- I’ve never heard someone sing like you did, perform like that.”

Granted, in his years Keith really hadn’t heard many performers, but that was information he didn’t offer.

“You clearly have a lot of passion,” He followed up after a moment, feeling like his words simply weren’t enough to explain what he felt when watching the set. He stared into the other’s eyes, trying to convey just how much he meant the statement.

And there it was again. That small smile that seemed so genuine, so real: not a singer’s smile for his audience, but the real person hiding behind the costume. The singer tried to hide it behind a hand, finishing the cigarette in a final draw, eyes flickering away almost shyly. By the time he breathed the smoke out, the smile was gone, but his voice remained soft as he said, “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

And this time, Keith felt like he had listened to his words.

“You’re welcome,” Keith replied.

The singer fiddled with the cigarette box, pulling another out. His mouth curled up as he looked guilty. “I’m only supposed to have one after a show – promise not to tell anyone?”

Keith nodded and, without a word, lit another match for the singer.

“Thanks,” He said. “Supposed to be cutting back – it’s apparently bad for my instrument,” he said, gesturing to his neck.

“Then why do it?” Keith couldn’t keep from asking.

The other merely shrugged. “It’s a comfort,” was all he said.

Keith nodded thoughtfully. “I can understand that.”

“So,” The gaze zeroed in on him, pinning him in its intensity, “Where did you and Shiro meet? The guy talks about you non-stop, yet I feel like I know nothing about you.”

Keith tugged at the corner of his lip, considering his answer. “I prefer it that way,” He said slowly, pondering his words. “You know, keeping my business just that: mine.”

The singer made a noise of agreement in his throat, “Something I am envious of. In this line of work, everyone feels entitled to access to your personal life.”

And while Keith wholeheartedly agreed, he felt drawn to answer this man’s questions. That they were being asked because the guy wanted to know Keith – no other reason. He wasn’t nosey, or looking for gossip, trying to find something interesting out about him. Just conversation, plain and simple.

“Shiro and I met when we were kids,” He supplied, “a long time ago.”

Keith could see him debating whether or not to ask follow-up questions, could see the gears in his head turning over what could be a safe question. It brought a short, barking laugh to Keith’s lips, and the singer looked to him with a stunned look on his face. “Ask whatever you want – though I retain the right not to answer.”

It took a mere moment before the question came bubbling past his red lips, “How did you meet?”

At this Keith shuffled, and merely said, “It’s complicated.”

“What do you do?”

“This and that. Whatever brings the money in.”

“What do you want to do?”

He felt himself blink, pondering the question. “I want to earn money?”

The singer shook his head and laughed. “No, no – what do you _like_ doing? How would you spend your time, if you could choose?”

One thing came to Keith’s mind: stacks of paper, ink. Days where he could scrawl with a quill until his hand cramped, and the sun set, and the candles had burned away to pools of wax. If he could, he would sit in a chair at his desk until he wilted away, as long as he got to spend time in that place of his own creation – that place entirely under his control.

But that was too raw, too close to a nerve for Keith to show someone. Instead he shrugged, playing as nonchalant as he could, “I don’t really have time to waste on things I _like._ ”

But the performer was well skilled in building facades to keep people at a distance: he could see straight through the hollow statement. But he didn’t push, just nodded and let a corner of his mouth curl up again. “It might be worth wasting the time,” He said slowly and thoughtfully, staring down at the ground.

The singer dropped his half-finished cigarette and crushed it beneath the dance heels he still wore. He hugged his shoulders, having grown cold in the late evening. “Are you coming back in?” He asked, reaching for the door.

Keith found himself shaking his head: the thought of re-joining the party was incredibly unappealing. He was in a thoroughly sour mood, and knew that he would either worry Shiro, or end up snapping at one of his friends.

Shiro deserved to have a good night that didn’t involve worrying about Keith and his low impulse control.

“Okay,” The singer said, accepting his answer for what it was. Still, Keith couldn’t help but imagine a quick look of disappointment flicker across his features. But it was gone in a moment, placed behind that constructed smile as the costume was donned once more.

“Well, it was nice to meet you Keith,” He beamed, leaning in the doorway.

“You too, erm-” Keith stuttered as he realised he hadn’t even asked for this guy’s name.

The singer chuckled. “Lance,” He supplied readily.

“Lance,” Keith repeated, as though under a spell. Without conscious thought he reached forwards and clasped Lance’s gloved hand in his own, bowing slightly and bringing it to his lips, pecking the fabric lightly. “Good night, _Lance_.”

Stepping away was incredibly difficult, letting Lance’s hand fall from his own. With one last glance, he turned to make his way home. He had almost made it to the main street, the red lights of the Café de L’Altea illuminating the cobblestones beyond, when he heard Lance shout after him.

He had stayed by the door, watching Keith’s departing form, until he had almost turned from view. “Don’t be a stranger!” Lance called from the stage door before heading back inside, the bolt sliding over loud in the city’s quiet.

Keith paused in his steps, letting the words wash over him, considering whether or not he would come back.

Shiro would certainly be happy if he returned…

The walk home was over quicker than Keith would have liked, not having enough time to sort through his mess of a brain. Once inside his flat he went straight to his room and lit several candles, settling himself down at his desk and pulling out a stack of paper.

_‘What do you like doing?’_

His whole body was filled with an energy unlike anything he had ever experienced, the burning need to get words down on paper and out of his brain. He scribbled furiously, the story forming as he went: the tale of a scarfweaver with a bright smile designed to lift those around them, and a poor painter who was more comfortable with brushes and colour than spoken words.

_‘Might be worth wasting the time.’_

Shiro came in a few hours later, Adam and him trying to slip in quietly in their drunk-hewn states. They didn’t notice he was still awake: or if they saw the flickering candlelight beneath the door, they decided against bothering him.

By the time he felt calm enough to sleep, the sun was lighting the horizon outside his window and his hand ached. He stretched out his digits, popping a few of the joints and rubbing at his tired eyes. Crawling into bed, his body drained, he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering to his encounter the night before.

The swaying hips of a dancer. The cackling laugh of a bartender. The intoxicating voice of a singer.

Keith didn’t know why he couldn’t keep Lance out of his mind, and that thought scared him.

He feared that something had been changed within him. And there was no way to go back.

*****

Stupid.

Stupid.

STUPID.

_What was he playing at?!_

He scrubbed at his face furiously, grimacing as glitter and running eyeliner came away on his fingers. He splashed his face again – again – too tired to get hot water and letting it plaster his skin, ice cold. Each burst of water had the breath freezing his lungs, had the trains of thought in his brain numbing blissfully. But each time as the cold faded the breath burst, and the unbidden thoughts ran rampant. In a panic, he shoved his face beneath the surface, taking in a mouthful of water but remaining there, letting the cold encompass him, reach his core, hollow him out, leave him empty-

He was an idiot.

He had made an absolute fool of himself.

Stupid.

They were all laughing at him. Enjoying the spectacle he had made of himself. He had willingly stood on that stage and encouraged them, fuelled their fires, drew their eyes to him.

They had glanced at him suspiciously as he had returned from his smoke, turning to whisper behind hands.

He knew they were talking about him. Why else would they look at him like that, judging him.

_Why_ did he follow him outside?

Stupid.

He could have just let him slip away from the group, disappear into the night and never thought about him again.

Why had he followed him, determined to talk to him?

Stupid.

_STUPID._


	2. Creep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The days drag on and no matter what he does, Keith just can't seem to get a particular singer off of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features Postmodern Jukebox's version of 'Creep', and can be found [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3lF2qEA2cw)
> 
> It is an absolutely gorgeous rendition that pulls on my heart strings every time I listen to it - its beautifully bittersweet.
> 
> And yes, many chapters will feature covers by Postmodern Jukebox...not sorry about it.

Lance was still on his mind.

No matter what Keith did, where he went, who he talked to, the singer stayed persistently in the forefront of his thought process. He was doing some construction work and almost got knocked out from not paying attention to what was going on around him because of his focus lying elsewhere.

Because those swaying hips still danced in his mind’s eye. And those softly sung words still echoed in his ears.

A shout in the night, asking him to come back again.

Keith knew he was being stupid.

And yet nothing he did could change that.

It was like being sane enough to recognise you’re being insane, and having no power to help yourself. Just enough sense left to consciously watch yourself spiral further and further down.

If this didn’t stop soon, it was going to kill him.

*****

Keith had a couple of days off and had graciously slept in, not rising from his room until after midday. He heavily let his body drop down at the kitchen table, chair creaking in protest, and rested his head in his hands with a groan.

Shiro raised a single eyebrow, his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Tired?”

Keith grumbled, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

The morning was evil.

Keith was ultimately a night owl, but unfortunately a lot of the work he got required getting up at ungodly times of the day. More than once Shiro has had to burst into his room and shove him off his bed to wake him up, dangerously close to sleeping in.

So when he had a day off, he took full advantage.

“You here for breakfast, or lunch?”

Keith shrugged noncommittedly, leaning forward instead to rest his head on the scratched wooden table. Shiro sighed, but diligently abandoned his sandwich to bring Keith a couple slices of dry bread. Keith mumbled his thanks, still not raising his head.

The two sat quietly for a few minutes, an established routine, as Keith attempted to wake himself up enough to socialise. Shiro continued with his lunch, his gaze returning to the paper he had been reading before Keith had emerged.

Shiro’s focus was drawn back to the feathery mass of black hair currently collapsed on the table as it desperately tried to mumble something at him.

“Table, Keith,” Shiro said in an exasperated tone.

His head fell to the side, freeing his mouth from mumbling against the well-worn wood. “What you doing today?”

“And why do you want to know?” Shiro teased, taking a bite of his lunch.

Keith glared at him through strands of his dishevelled hair. “Just taking an interest.”

Shiro smirked at him, placing the paper down. “I need to head down to the club soon. Allura and I have a few details of our performance to work out before we open tonight.”

Keith nodded thoughtfully, trying to picture Shiro twirling Allura in his arms like the man at the party the other night.

“Do you want to come?” Shiro asked off hand. This was an offer Keith received regularly: whenever he asked about the club, Shiro would try and badger him to attend a performance, and Keith would respectfully decline.

But for once, he found himself considering it…

Flashing blue eyes appeared in Keith’s mind’s eye, and he quickly buried the image down, trying to ignore it. He internally shook himself, refusing to follow the train of thought that lead to the change of heart.

But, unable to help himself, he asked, “What else is on?”

Here Shiro paused, not expecting any reply other than a firm ‘no, thanks’. He glanced at Keith in surprise, grasping for words for a moment before managing, “Just the usual. A few dancers, a few singers.”

“Singers, huh?” Keith couldn’t stop himself from probing. “Like that guy from your party?”

He could feel his cheeks growing hot at the mere mention of Lance. At this point he reached forwards to grab a slice of bread, stuffing it in his mouth before he could say anything else stupid.

Shiro looked at him quizzically. “You mean Lance?” He asked, and Keith nodded his affirmation. “Yeah, I think he’s doing a few numbers tonight.”

Keith chewed thoughtfully. Lance’s stage presence had undoubtedly drawn him in, and stupidly he was considering returning for more. He could see he was on a slippery slope, but no argument could successfully convince him to reject Shiro’s offer.

Keith swallowed forcefully, the food having lost any flavour on his tongue. His stomach was in knots at the mere thought of seeing Lance again, and he pushed the plate away from himself. Without prompting, Shiro swooped down to help himself to the rejected plate, the two of them well versed in keeping food from going to waste.

Already feeling embarrassed, Keith looked away from Shiro, focusing on his fingers as he picked at the splintering edge of the table. “Is he…always, like that?” He mumbled, trying to mask the question as innocent. His flatmate didn’t notice him changing the subject without an answer, and Keith wasn’t ready to accept the invitation without trying everything he could to convince himself not to go.

Shiro kicked him under the table, and Keith scowled. “Hey-!”

“Stop picking at the table,” Shiro scolded. “Heaven knows we can’t afford another one.”

Keith grumbled, but smoothed down the edge he had been picking at with a sour look on his face.

“And why is he always like what?” Shiro asked.

Keith kept his eyes firmly averted, fighting the urge to resume destroying the table. “Like...” He grasped for the words, unsure what to say without sounding like a fool. He stuttered for a moment before managing, “He was so friendly.”

Shiro raised a brow. “It’s normal for people to be friendly, Keith. You are the weird one in regards to that.”

Keith scowled. “No!” He insisted. “He was… _more_ friendly.”

Shiro pondered his words for a moment, before some clarification seemed to surface. “Oooohhhh, you mean the flirting?”

His face _burned._ He hadn’t wanted to outright say it – oh god, that meant that Shiro had noticed. Shiro had been paying attention while he was being made a fool of – while he was making a fool of himself. He wanted to backpedal. “No- uh, that’s not what I-”

But Shiro just laughed good naturedly, ruffling Keith’s hair to stop his stammering. “I really should have warned you. Lance is a bit more… _friendly_ ,” he used the word with a smirk, “than most of the others. He means no harm though.”

No harm, huh? Keith found that hard to believe. With how hard his heart had pounded he was lucky he hadn’t died from a heart attack right there. There was no way the performer wasn’t aware of his effect on others. Keith tried to take deep breaths, willing his blushing cheeks to calm down before he gave himself away.

But Shiro had distracted himself, making sure to hoover each and every remaining crumb from his plate. “Sorry if he made you uncomfortable,” Shiro said, eyes still not rising to meet Keith’s. “He is honestly a really nice guy. He just can’t help himself.”

Keith was failing pitifully at getting his visceral reaction under control. He turned and buried his face in his arms, hiding his blazing completion into the table. This conversation with Shiro was _painful –_ why had he brought it up in the first place? Did he really need to know more and go snooping about the mysterious performer? Usually the imagined version in Keith’s mind was enough: he could decide how he would have approached them, what unsavoury attributes they had to put him off. He could make sure he didn’t make a fool of himself, or ensure that they didn’t screw him over.

He liked to keep people at a distance. He watched, and felt like he knew them, and made sure it never went further than that.

So what was so different this time? Why was he asking Shiro for more information?

Shiro patted Keith’s shoulder soothingly, trying to calm his friend. “I’m sorry if he embarrassed you Keith. Honestly, if you’re not comfortable with it he won’t take any offence. He’s naturally over the top, but will happily rein himself in if people don’t like what he’s saying, or how touchy-feely he is. You could just say to him. He’ll be fine with it, I swear. He would rather you say than continue to upset you.”

Keith groaned loudly into his arms, the situation quickly getting worse. Shiro – sweet, sweet Shiro – had gotten the completely wrong end of the stick here. Granted, Keith usually wasn’t the friendliest of people. He didn’t tend to put himself out there and talk to others. It would be perfectly understandable for Shiro to suspect that Keith had been made to feel incredibly uncomfortable in Lance’s presence.

“Keith?” Shiro prompted, looking for a response.

Keith considered what he wanted to say to Shiro, before grumbling, “I looked like an idiot.” He wanted to open up to his friend, but this was such a foreign situation he didn’t know how to approach it. Not to mention it was with a personal friend of Shiro’s – he didn’t want to make him feel awkward.

“Are we talking about a situation in particular, or the entirety of your life?”

Keith glared at him, “You’re mean today.”

Shiro’s smirk was starting to seriously irritate him – all Keith wanted to do was get to the end of this conversation alive, but Shiro was more interested in annoying Keith. Typical. “During the performance,” he bit, body wound tight with tension. “When he…”

Shiro raised an eyebrow, “When he…?”

“He…sang to me. Sat on my lap…in front of all those people!”

Standing up, Shiro cleared the plates from the table and took them over to the sink, turning the tap and crossing his fingers that hot water would come out. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Shiro assured him, keeping his back to him. Keith felt relief once Shiro’s eyes were off of him, like he could finally grab a breath. “He does that all the time – it’s sort of his signature.”

Relief and disappointment swirled uncomfortably in Keith’s gut, the mix of emotions confusing him. “He does it with everyone?”

“Everyone and everything he can get hold of,” Shiro chuckled. “Did you see him dancing around me? Little shit was trying to wind up Adam – too bad my genius of a boyfriend caught on to his teasing ways a long time ago.”

“Oh,” Was all Keith could muster, feeling deflated.

It was good – it meant that the watching crowd wouldn’t have been scandalized by the singer’s performance. While his cheeks still flushed red at the memory, it was a comfort that he hadn’t been embarrassed in front of so many people. The dance, the blinding smile and sparkling eyes, the mark of red lipstick he had discovered on his neck the morning following…

It meant nothing.

So why wasn’t that knowledge making him feel any better?

“You’re off tomorrow, aren’t you?” Shiro asked, setting plates aside to dry.

Keith hummed an affirmation, too preoccupied with the confusing reactions in his chest.

“Well, if you’re interested in coming by the club, a few of us are going out after if you would like to join?” Shiro’s tone was calm, disinterested, but Keith could see through the act in a heartbeat. This was another offer Keith had received many times, and he felt idiotic that he was considering accepting just because of a pretty singer that had probably already forgotten his name.

“Who’s going?” Keith found himself asking, and cursed to himself.

Shiro’s shoulders tensed with the effort it took not to react to Keith showing an interest. “Erm…” he started, stuttering to get his mouth working. “Allura? Adam, a few of the dancers, a couple musicians – I’m not sure if you got the chance to meet all of them.”

Keith nodded to no one in particular. He tried to ignore the way his stomach dropped when Shiro hadn’t mentioned Lance’s name. “I’ll let you know?”

Shiro blanched, clearly not expecting Keith even considering attending. “A-alright. If you come by the club you could meet us before we head out? Just say my name on the door and the bouncer will let you in.”

Keith returned to picking at the table, cheeks flaming as he said, “I said I would let you know, Shiro.” He didn’t want to be given a plan to attend: too many details made him feel trapped in the activity and he wasn’t sure he had the courage to actually make himself attend just yet. He just didn’t want the pressure of committing.

“That’s okay,” Shiro backed off quickly recognising the panicked look in Keith’s eye at the threat of being overwhelmed. “Just meant if you fancy coming just pop by the club to join us.” He stood and gathered his dishes, sitting them at the sink and glancing at the clock. “I had better run – Allura and I have a few numbers we’re needing to work on.”

Keith grumbled a goodbye to him, still swamped with the fear of possibly attending a social event with people he barely knew. That is, until he felt a sharp swat to the back of his head, making him yelp as Shiro snapped, “And stop picking at the table!”

*****

He sat down heavily in his seat, cheeks burning as red as the lights beyond the door. The doorman has raised an interested eyebrow as he uttered Shiro’s name, shooting his partner a look before allowing Keith entry.

The main hall was even more daunting this time with patrons milling around, crowding the bar and clustered around the tables. Ducking his head, Keith grabbed a seat at the back of the hall, making sure he was well distanced from anyone else. He swept a nervous hand through his hair, feeling underdressed in this crowd of suited gentlemen and ladies in gowns. He averted his eyes, his gaze burning into the table top.

A British accent cut through the dim of the crowd, its owner loud and pompous amongst his group of friends. The group laughed raucously, the originally speaker beaming with their positive reaction to whatever he had said. The man’s hair was silver and long, tumbling well past his shoulders, and even from this distance Keith could tell his suit likely cost more than Keith made in a year. Hell, make that two years.

The lights of the stage flashed, signalling the show would be beginning soon. Everyone took to their seats quickly as the lights dimmed, the only light from candles burning on the tables. A spotlight appeared on the stage against the drawn curtains as the ginger-haired man with a moustache – Coran, the owner, Keith had found out later – stepped up to the centre, accompanied by a polite round of applause. He paused by the microphone, taking in the scene before opening his mouth and letting his voice boom over the sound system. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Café de L’Altea!”

At this the band started up and Coran turned with a flourish of his arm as the curtains began to part, revealing a line of cancan dancers in a row, all wearing the same outfit. The dancers came forward, legs kicking high and skirts flourishing with each exaggerated movement.

Keith settled his head in his hand, eyes unfocused as the act carried on: he had to admit this wasn’t necessarily something he was interested in. He would rather be enjoying the empty apartment whilst Shiro was working, setting up his writings on the kitchen table where he could spread out-

The thought of Lance came to mind and his cheeks reddened, suddenly torn as to where he would rather be.

He could try and convince himself that he had no idea why he had accepted Shiro’s offer, why he had tried to dress up and walked the winding road to the club. It was stupid, this childish desire to see more of the friendly singer.

Stupid was the right word: Shiro himself had told Keith that Lance acted like that with everyone. He probably wouldn’t even remember Keith’s name, busy putting on a good show and playing with the audience he held captivated in his hand. This was his job, to be enchanting. And Keith had fallen for it – he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t- Christ he couldn’t breathe-

He stood quickly, ready to bolt from the scene. This was a mistake, a huge mistake. Idiot, idiot, _idiot_ -!

A round of applause made him jump violently as the cancan dancers bowed and exited the stage, the curtains closing after them. Coran reappeared on the stage, joining in the applause for the dancers.

Keith stood frozen, feeling as though he had been caught in the act. Of exactly what, he wasn’t sure, but he was stuck on his feet as the room fell quiet beneath Coran’s next words.

“The best cancan dancers in Paris, wouldn’t you say so?” He laughed as the crowd whooped and hollered their reply, “And that is merely a taste of the line-up we have for you this evening. Now, our next act needs no introduction.” He paused, letting the suspense build as the crowd practically vibrated in their seats. “You may know him as the Songbird of the Carrousel, Monsieur Lance McClain!”

The crowd erupted into applause as Keith felt his legs give out, lowering himself back into the chair. He was hooked, eyes trained for the parting of the curtains, trapped in his own body and powerless to leave as the spotlight shrank to a small white circle against the curtain.

With a soft ‘shhh’ of dragging fabric the curtains parted, drawing gasps from the crowd as they spotted Lance.

He stood stock still, clothed in black as though in mourning with his head turned towards the floor. One hand rested against the microphone stand, the other hanging limply at his side. He wore a floor-length black velvet gown, sleeves covering his arms down to the wrists, triangular cut outs of fabric starting at the crest of his collarbones and widening out to wrap around his ribs under his arms to the back of the dress. A feather boa was draped over his arms, the black feathers dark as a raven’s and glinting in the spotlight as he turned his face to the crowd. His eyes were soft, almost sorrowful, as he opened his mouth and began as though speaking to a friend before the band joined him.

_‘When you were here before’_

Keith felt his doubts and fears melt from his body, anxious thoughts eclipsed as Lance began to sing. His world viewpoint narrowed down to the darkly-clad figure on the stage, singing with such emotion that pulled at Keith’s heart. Lance sang as though he were ashamed, in awe of who he was singing to, unable to measure up.

_‘I wish I were special,_

_You’re so very special.’_

As he sang his free hand came up to rest against his collarbones, creeping further up his neck to brush against his cheek. He rarely looked to the crowd, performing as though he were baring his soul. Keith found himself leaning forwards in his chair, hands resting on the table to raise himself up slightly for a better view.

_‘But I’m a freak,_

_I’m a weirdo._

_What the hell am I doing here?’_

Lance sounded distressed, as though seriously asking the question, his face torn as he practically whispered:

_‘I don’t belong here.’_

His eyes traced the crowd: softer, less intense than last time. He looked like he was searching for someone who could answer his question. Keith’s spine sat straight as he Lance looked in his direction, but hidden in the shadows he knew that he wouldn’t be seen from here. He could keep his wide, mystified eyes to himself.

Lance continued with the song as his eyes danced over his captive audience, working through the next chorus before his eyes settled on one of the tables at the front row.

_‘You’re so very special’_

He said it intimately, picking one person at the table to sing to. There were whoops and hollers as the blond man Keith had noticed earlier was jeered by his friends, taunting punches to the shoulder as Lance sang to him with a small smile. Lance raised a finger and coyly wiggled it in a ‘come hither’ movement, that small smile curling in the corner to something mischievous. The blond man smiled good humouredly but shook his head, waving off his disappointed friends.

This refusal fazed no one: the man began laughing as suddenly Allura appeared at his side, linking arms with him and hauling him to his feet and up the stairs. His face turned red as he was marched up to Lance, Allura giggling in his ear. While this was happening Lance was carrying on with the chorus as he beckoned the man closer. Someone had brought a chair onto the stage and the man was heavily pushed into it by Allura as she shot him a ‘don’t you dare move’ look before slinking away.

Lance slowly walked around the man as he sang, tracing his hands over his shoulders, letting the cable of the microphone wind around the chair legs.

‘ _She’s running, well she’s running out again_

_I said she’s running out.’_

Lance came to settle comfortably across the man’s lap as his voice let rip at the end of the bridge, leaning his head back and wrapping an arm around the man’s neck to keep seated as he let the notes soar from his throat while his back arched. He looked as though he fit perfectly in the man’s lap, made to be seated there.

Keith tried to ignore the white-hot flash of jealousy strike in his chest.

Lance sat up, his tone sobering as he looked deep into the man’s eyes. Although he held the mic to his lips, these words seemed like they were just for him, not part of the act: something special, just for them.

_‘Whatever makes you happy,_

_Whatever you want,_

_You’re so very special,_

_Yeah, I wish I was special.’_

Lance broke their gaze, staring over his shoulder in the direction of the crowd, taking them all in and yet looking to no one as he sorrowfully sang,

_‘But I’m a creep,_

_I said it,_

_I’m a weirdo.’_

He stood suddenly from the man’s lap, as though he couldn’t bear to remain there a moment longer in his distraught state. He blocked the man from view, running his hands through his hair as he told the crowd:

‘ _What the hell am I doing here?_

_I don’t belong.’_

Here the music truly soared as Lance let himself go, his eyes fluttering shut as his voice melded with the crescendo-ing band, his body moving in jerks as though he were sobbing.

_‘I’m a creep!’_

Pale hands settled on his hips as the man rose from his chair, Lance leaning back into the touch and pressing his back into the man’s chest. He kept his eyes on the crowd as the man held him close, pressing light kisses to the side of his neck.

_‘I don’t belong here…’_

The song melted away with the final tinkle of the piano keys, and suddenly the crowd were erupting in applause. The table the blond man originally came from jumped to their feet and wolf whistled as the man blushed red on stage, the spell of the song now over and leaving him realising just where he was.

Lance grinned and, with a delicate hand on the man’s jaw to angle his mouth, met his lips with his own. The roar of the crowd grew louder as the two kissed on stage, breaking apart from one another slightly breathless.

Keith…

Keith felt like his lungs were frozen, deflated and flat in his chest and refusing to draw in air. His vision tunnelled to where the pair stood together as Coran joined them, shouting into his microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen, Café de L’Altea’s benefactor, Duke Lotor Galran! Give him a round of applause for humouring his fiancé!” Coran gestured as Duke Lotor returned to his table with a red face, grin beaming on his face.

Lance kept his smile in place, nodding his head to the crowd in appreciation of their applause before the band struck up again and Lance launched into another song, this one upbeat and earning the crowd a serious of cheeky winks as he sashayed his hips.

Keith was stunned, feeling foolish and stupid in the shadows of the hall.

Fiancé…?

Shiro was right: the flirting, it hadn’t met anything. A part of him had known to be wary of how his thoughts could run rampant, unbidden and whispering impossible desires in his ear as he put them to paper.

And yet, here he was, feeling ridiculous and embarrassed for how his heart seemed to constrict in his chest at the brief glances Lance would send to the Duke from the stage.

It looked like his story of the scarfweaver had another character that needed to be added.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaand we have a little bit of angst.   
> Be prepared - this is only the beginning.   
> Until next time xx


	3. Careless Whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith is out of his element, and Lance tries his hand at teaching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's chapter name is courtesy of Postmodern Jukebox's version of 'Careless Whisper', found [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVXziMFEqX0)
> 
> If you watch the youtube video, I recommend keeping an eye on the saxophonist at 48 seconds in...

Keith remained alone at his table as the main lights rose and the club’s customers began to exit, stumbling drunkenly and chattering loudly of the night’s show. Keith barely heard them, lost in his heavy thought process. He had hardly paid any attention to the rest of the show, instead wrapped up in the world of his story, formulating a plot, constructing what would likely turn out to be a tragedy. He automatically and numbly clapped when the crowd did, following the story of the scarf weaver behind his eyes.

While the room has mostly emptied, the Duke and his party remain at their table, shouting to one another as though they were on opposite sides of the room as opposed to across a table, determined for anyone near to envy a role in their conversation. Feeling insecure amongst the cluster of empty tables, Keith finally stands and makes his way to the bar, finding Pidge manning the bar this time instead of Lance. He took a stool, watching as the gremlin set about closing down.

“In need of one for the road?” She asked, stacking glasses so quickly Keith wondered how they weren’t cracking and breaking between her tiny hands. “Or have you finally accepted Shiro’s offer?”

Keith glowered at her, and she cackled with a shake of her head, “He finally wore you down, huh?”

“Does everyone know about Shiro’s attempts to get me to socialise?” He asked gruffly, grunting in appreciation as she abandoned her close-down duties to pour him a glass of something amber-brown and strong with the smell of alcohol.

“ _Everyone_ ,” She smirked, corking the bottle and refusing his money. “I’ll put it on his tab, don’t worry. It's the least he could do,” She said with a wink.

“At some point, someone here is going to need to start accepting my money,” Keith said, taking a sip from his glass to find it to be rum.

“So you’re planning on returning?” Pidge asked, holding conversation as she flitted around behind the bar.

Keith took another sip, considering his answer. “I haven’t said that.”

“One night out with the team and you’ll be hooked,” She promised.

“Can I get a water, Pidge?” A large familiar man came up to the bar, running a hand through slightly-greasy hair. “Those lights – I’m parched!”

She nodded, “No bother Hunk.”

“You’re the piano player,” Keith blurted out, placing the guy’s face.

The guy – Hunk – turned to him with a kind expression, mouth splitting into a wide grin as recognition sparkled in his eyes, “And you’re Shiro’s mysterious flatmate.”

Keith blushed a deep red – did Shiro really have to tell each and every person in this place about his existence? “Guilty.”

Hunk extended a hand in the space between them, pleased to see Keith tentatively accept it. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Sorry I missed you at the party, I was busy tickling the keys,” He said with a wink, wiggling his fingers.

“I didn’t really stick around for long,” Keith admitted, grip tight on his glass. “Not really my scene. There was…a lot of people.”

“Not a people person,” Hunk said with a thoughtful nod. Not a question, but a remark. “Well, we can certainly be overwhelming - there's a lot of personality between these four walls. I’m glad to see that we didn’t scare you off at least.”

Keith smiled a small smile, too embarrassed to admit he wished he had been scared off – better that than whatever was going on in his head right now.

“We’re like a family, you know?” Hunk said, gratefully taking the water Pidge offered him. “You’re practically Shiro’s brother, so that makes you part of the family too.”

Keith practically _heard_ Pidge roll her eyes, “And you’re doing a great job as ‘annoying uncle who doesn’t understand people’s boundaries’ Hunk.”

Hunk chuckled, raising the glass to his lips, “Fair point. Sorry Keith,” He added with a nod of his head.

“Making a scene?” A teasing voice said as a hand landed on Keith’s head and ruffled his hair into a mess. He scowled, hand raising to comb through the disarray. Shiro stepped into view sporting his shit-eating grin, coming to stand between Hunk and Keith, “He busy being a sour puss?” Shiro asked Hunk.

“Shut it Shiro,” Keith snapped as Hunk and Pidge hid snickers behind their hands.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Shiro chuckled, graciously accepting the glass Pidge handed his way. “So what did you think of the show?” Shiro asked the question with a guarded tone, trying to appear flippant but clearly excited to hear Keith’s opinion.

He nodded thoughtfully, mulling over his words. “It was…different from anything I’ve seen before.”

“A good different?”

Keith nodded, sipping at his drink.

“Jeez,” Pidge said sarcastically, “Just listen to him singing your praises. Watch out or you’ll get a bigger ego than you already have, Shiro.”

Shiro’s mouth curled up at the corner, shooting Keith a look he avoided. “Trust me – that’s high praise, coming from Keith.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Keith grumbled without malice, avoiding Shiro’s pleased look.

Two more voices came within ear shot, coming up behind the group. “Come on babe, _please_.”

A familiar laugh that made the hairs on the back of Keith’s neck stand up, “Not tonight, you know I’ve got plans.”

No one turned as the voices approached: that is, except for Keith. He automatically turned, stomach flipping as he took in Lance and the Duke joining them, the Duke’s arm thrown possessively across Lance’s shoulders.

“I haven’t seen you properly in _ages,”_ The Duke – Lotor, wasn’t it? – practically begged.

Lance’s grin was wide and easy, not caring of the others hearing. “And I haven’t been out and blown off some steam in _ages,”_ He mocked Lotor’s whining tone, pulling a chuckle from the Duke.

The pair joined the group at the bar, Lotor straightening up and removing his arm. “Can’t you go out tomorrow?”

“Can’t I come and see you tomorrow?” Lance shot back. “It’s been so long – what will the people of Paris do without me?”

“Tearing up the town in a drunken stupor,” Pidge snickered, ignoring the tongue Lance stuck out in her direction.

“Why don’t you join us?” Lance asked with wide, begging eyes. “You’d have fun, I promise.”

“You know it’s not my kind of thing.”

Lance nodded, clearly knowing better than to push it and instead dropping his attempt. “Well I’ve got plans with everyone tonight – I can come round tomorrow?”

Lotor pulled Lance closer, resting hands on his hips and acting as though no one else was there. “You’ve got my key – you’re welcome to stay with me tonight afterwards. It’s a lot closer than walking all the way back home.”

Lance grinned, glad to see Lotor having relented. He placed a chaste kiss to his cheek, “You’re the best.”

“Bad move Duke,” Pidge warned, chuckling as Lance sent her a dirty look, “I’ve taken care of many a drunk-Lance in my time – trust me, it ain’t pretty.”

Lotor laughed, “And trust me, he’s worth it.”

Lance’s vicious retort died in his throat, cheeks instantly reddening at Lotor’s words. He spluttered a moment, only growing redder as Lotor dropped a light kiss to his lips. “I’ll bid you all a fair evening,” Lotor said with a nod before heading for the door, leaving Lance speechless in his tracks.

“You can pick your jaw up off the floor,” Pidge reminded him, snapping Lance back to the present.

“You’re such a pain,” Lance laughed. He leaned against Hunk’s side easily, throwing an arm over his shoulders and pulling him close. “So where are we going? I need a _drink!”_

“We were thinking the Balmera Bar,” Hunk told him, clearly used to the singer hanging off of him as he doesn’t even bat an eye.

“Oh yeah?” Lance asked with a raised eyebrow. “Shay singing tonight, is she?”

Hunk’s cheeks reddened curiously, suddenly paying an awful lot of attention to his glass of water. “I don’t see what that has to do with it.”

“Hunk, my buddy, my man – you’re a lot of things, but subtle ain’t one of them.”

“I like the Balmera Bar,” Shiro cut in, trying to save Hunk from Lance’s teasing.

“He’s convinced you all, has he?” Lance asked, placing a hand to Hunk’s red cheek. “You okay Hunk?” He asked with mock sincerity, “you’re burning up.”

Hunk shrugged him off with a weak glare. “You’ve got your own love life, _must_ you mess with mine?”

“Since when are we using the ‘L’ word-!”

“Leave him be Lance,” Pidge scolded, pushing a glass of strong smelling liquor into his hands. “Hunk is too sweet for your merciless teasing.”

Lance chuckled and abated, his eyes sliding down the bar and coming to rest on Keith, sitting so still that Lance had barely noticed him. A new target for teasing. “Well, well, nice to see you again Red.” The singer’s lips curled up into one of his genuine smiles, there a moment before being disrupted by the glass held to them.

“Red?” Shiro asked curiously, raising an eyebrow at Keith with a teasing smile that Keith did his best to ignore. He just nodded in response, not sure what to say.

“As chatty as I remember,” Lance giggled. “So who else is joining us tonight?”

Shiro rattled off a list of names: some Keith knew, some he didn’t. “Allura, Nadia, Ryan, Ina – maybe James too, though we all know his penchant for flaking.”

“I know some of the wait staff are joining too,” Hunk added. “Ezor is a definite, so knowing her she’ll turn Acxa and Narti’s maybes into solid yeses.”

“And likely drag Zethrid along too, probably kicking and screaming,” Pidge said.

Lance nodded along to their list, eyes seeming to draw towards Keith out with his control. “Are you coming too, Keith?”

“Yeah-” Keith croaked, feeling foolish as he felt the wave of panic crash through him when Lance addressed him directly.

“Great!” Lance grinned, excitement sparkling in his eyes. “We’re a lot of fun – you’re going to have a great time.”

“I’m not exactly one for the nightlife-” Keith warned.

“Nonsense!” Lance cut him off with a dramatic flourish of his hand, “That just means you ain’t been doing it right.”

*****

Keith was right: he was _not_ one for the nightlife.

Bodies bustled around them in a clamour of chatter, a swirling current of streams leading to the dance-floor, the bar or the bathroom, easy to be swept up into and lost amongst the noise. He held himself close, trying to make himself smaller and avoid brushing up against the people squeezing past, grateful to see Pidge managing to snag them a table in the corner away from the bulk of the crowd.

The Balmera Bar wasn’t an awful place: in the daylight, in the silence, it would be a beautiful room. Unlike the Café de L’Altea the stage here was small, designed for a singer and a limited band so that most of the space could be used for dancing, small round tables and dainty chairs arranged up against the walls well out of the way of tipsy dancers. Their entertainment wasn’t a show so much as the atmosphere they created.

Keith leaned up against the wall as the group came to rest at the table, most of them needing to remain on their feet clustered around the small table, but at least they had a place to put their jackets and put their drinks down. Keith’s eyes darted nervously around the room, trying to process the throng of bodies. This place, this noise – it was something otherworldly to him. New, and not entirely welcome.

The music here was upbeat: designed for moving instead of being listened to. The singer swung their hips on stage, their voice carrying out over the bustling crowd. Hunk stood transfixed, drink clasped in his hand long forgotten as he watched the stage.

“ _That’s Hunk’s girlfriend_ ,” a voice faux-whispered in Keith’s ear, making him jump about a foot in the air.

Lance cackled, curling in on himself, while Shiro half-heartedly swatted at his ear. “Stop being a pain,” Shiro scolded, rolling his eyes at the sparkling look in the singer’s eyes. “And stop bullying Hunk.”

“Hey, he’s _my_ roommate. If anyone’s allowed to bully him it’s me!” Lance defended.

“ _Should_ anyone be allowed to bully him?” Keith asked, trying to cover his words with a sip from his glass.

Lance turned on him with a raised brow. “Well, well,” He smirked, “At last, he speaks. Nice of you to join us Red,” He said with a wink of his eye.

“ _Lance,”_ Shiro sighed exasperatedly.

“Alright alright,” Lance abated, raising his hands in defeat with a devilish smirk. “I’ll cut it out – but only for you Shiro.” He fluttered his eyelashes in an enticing manner, that smirk curling into something dangerously flirtatious, “I’d do anything for you.”

Shiro simply rolled his eyes, Lance’s power useless against him. “Quit it – you haven’t got Adam here to wind up.”

“Even better for us,” Lance said in a sultry tone, ruining the act with a loud nasal snort at the look Shiro gave him.

“This is why no one should let you drink,” Shiro told him. “Ever.”

“You sound like Lotor,” Lance said with a pout.

“You and I both know he’s the best thing that ever happened to you,” Shiro said with a chuckle, doing his best to ignore the overdramatic pout of Lance’s, eyes comically wide. “A good influence, if you ask me.”

Lance stuck his tongue out at him. “I didn’t ask for your input, _Dad.”_

“Do you not want my blessing, my child?” Shiro laughed. “Before the big day!”

“‘The big day’ my ass,” Pidge cut in, elbowing Lance’s side and laughing off the curse he spat at her. “At this rate, they’ll never get married.”

“Butt out, Pidge,” Lance told her with a pointed finger.

“How come?” Keith asked, ignoring the surprised look from Shiro at willingly joining the conversation. It was a wonder he spoke at all, with how often his company was aghast when he had something to say.

“They’ve been engaged for two years now,” Pidge told him, ignoring Lance’s whining protests. “With no wedding in sight.”

“We can’t just throw something like that together overnight,” Lance said. “Lotor knows a lot of important people – we need to pick a date they can all make it. There’s a lot of conflicting calendars. And don’t even get me _started_ on catering-”

“And the outfits-” Pidge added with a rehearsed tone.

“And the venue-” Lance continued, counting off the various problems on his fingers

“And the invitation style-”

“ _And_ before all of that, we need to pick out colour themes!” Lance cried, distressed at the mere thought. “I’m a summer, but Lotor is so clearly a winter. So why don’t you tell me how to resolve that, little Miss know-it-all.”

Pidge shrugged, taking a nonchalant sip from her glass. “Just wear black.”

Lance’s hand flew to his chest in horror, mouth dropping open wide. “Black? _Black?_ How am I even friends with you.”

“This all seems…very complicated,” Keith said slowly, struggling to keep up with the pair.

“Yes,” Lance rounded on him with wide, crazy eyes, “Thank you Keith!”

“You’re welcome?” He said, no less confused.

The current song ended, any further discussion drowned out by how loudly Hunk clapped and hollered at their side. He noticed them staring and blushed red, lowering his voice. Lance looked geared up to descend and wind his friend up some more over his crush, but a new song starting had the singer pause in his tracks. Various emotions passed over his face: recognition, confusion, frustration and, finally, understanding. He shrieked, practically dropping his drink onto the table he was in such a rush to free his hands. “I love this song,” He announced, grabbing Hunk’s dance and pulling the pianist into the crowd. “Come on Hunk, let’s dance!”

The pianist let himself be pulled, several others from their group joining them, carving out a small niche on the dance-floor for themselves as solo saxophone burst out over the dance floor, Shay flashing a smile to her waiting crowd before she began to sing:

_‘I feel so unsure,_

_As I take your hand and lead you to the dance floor’_

Lance moved as though he were fluid instead of solid, like he was a duck in water-

Wait, Keith paused himself, was that a good analogy? No, he could surely do better-

Wait, why was he standing watching Lance as he spun and laughed amid his group of friends, working out how best to describe the movement of the singer’s body?

Keith forcibly pulled his gaze from the dance-floor, instead staring down at the glass in his hands, watching how the two cubes of ice slowly circled one another.

“Are you having fun?” Shiro asked, leaning in close to be heard over the music.

Keith shrugged, taking a sip to hold off answering. “I guess so.”

Shiro looked troubled with his answer, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Keith said, shirking back when he saw the concerned look Shiro gave him. “I’m fine, Shiro. I’ve just – I’ve never been somewhere like this before. It’s a lot.”

Shiro nodded thoughtfully, “I appreciate the effort, just so you know. It’s nice, having you here.”

“Thanks,” Keith grumbled, trying his best not to break out in a blush.

“You may be busy trying to maintain prickly and keep everyone away, but the fact that you turned up means a lot to me.”

“Shiro,” Keith whined, “Stop being so mushy.”

“Alright alright,” Shiro abated with a grin, nudging Keith’s side playfully and offering his hand in an exaggerated flourish, “Care to dance, Mister Kogane?”

Keith wrinkled his nose in disgust, glaring Shiro’s hand as though it were covered in filth. “You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

“Not at all,” Shiro said, still holding that hand out for Keith to take. “One dance. Do that, and you’ll make me the happiest man in Paris.”

“Not worth it,” Keith told him with a straight-face.

“You’re no fun,” Shiro said.

“We’re both well aware of that by now,” Keith pointed out, noting the look of longing in Shiro’s eye. He nodded his head towards the dance floor to the group who were laughing with each other. “Go dance and enjoy yourself. I’m a big boy – I’ll be fine by myself.”

“You’re sure?”

_“Go_ Shiro. Enjoy yourself,” Keith ordered.

With no further argument Shiro did as he was told, earning cheers as he joined the group, integrating seamlessly into the writhing hoarde.

With no further distraction Keith found himself watching the group, how they all moved amongst each other so easily, swapping partners smiling, laughing as someone slipped or stumbled into someone. Lance swept through the crowd, twirling someone in his arms before turning and being twirled himself. His smile was the brightest thing on the dance floor, drawing eyes from across the room, his laugh light and infectious.

_‘I’m never gona dance again_

_Guilty feet have got no rhythm.’_

Keith almost dropped his glass in fright as Lance spun and locked eyes with him across the dance-floor. Blushing red he automatically looked away, curiosity gripping him to look back to find Lance desperately waving him over to join. With a feeling of utter horror Keith shook his head, rejecting Lance’s desperate plea to get him to dance. No way, there was no way in hell-

Lance clearly wasn’t one to take no for an answer. With a face set with determination he weaved through the crowd towards Keith, each step closer causing more dread to build in Keith’s gut.

“Keith-Keith come on!” He could hear Lance over the music now, coming dangerously close.

Keith felt frozen with fear, shaking his head desperately. “No,no-”

“Too bad.” With a dangerous grin and a grip hot like fire Lance grasped Keith’s shaking hand and pulled him into the crowd. Neither boy noticed as Keith’s glass slipped from his numb fingers, shattering against the floor and covering a nearby couple’s shoes in whisky. They yelled after them but at that point both boys had been swallowed by the crowd.

Keith stumbled over his own useless feet, bumping into people amidst the dance-floor, unheard apologies slipping automatically from his mouth. Lance dragged him deeper into the throng, until the moving bodies and humid heat threatened to suffocate him, snuff him out in the blink of an eye.

Lance let go of his hand and he was lost, left to float alone and inevitably drown in a sea of uncaring people, who only deemed to look at him when he bumped into their sides, or accidentally trod on their shoes. His chest was tight, blood thrumming in his veins in a desperate cry for oxygen. Oh god, he needed to get out of here. He needed-

“Hey.” That fire-like hand was back, resting against his shoulder. Lance’s face came in close, those bright eyes filled with concern, looking at Keith like he was the only thing in the room. “Keith, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

So much – there was so much wrong. What was Keith doing here: he wasn’t a dancer, or a musician. He wasn’t a part of this, regardless of how well he knew Shiro. He shouldn’t be here – he didn’t belong here, he didn’t belong-

“Keith!” Lance was shouting to be heard over the music now, gripping both of his shoulders tight and forcing him to look at him. “Are you okay?”

“I-I-” Keith stuttered, overwhelmed with the sounds, the people, the swirling thoughts in his head-

Lance looked so worried, so _real._ Not wearing that mask of a face, but his true self shining through, freed in this cacophony of music and movement. “Should I get Shiro?”

“I can’t dance!” Keith gasped, feeling simultaneously lighter and stupider even as he said the words, but knowing them to be true. He was frozen still, afraid of moving in case he bumped into more people. He couldn’t do it, move with the music, move with the synchronised steps of the crowd. “I can’t dance.”

Concern melted away to relief, a small smile creeping into the corner of Lance’s mouth. “Lucky for you,” He said, leaning in close so he didn’t need to shout over the music, “I am an excellent teacher. Just follow my lead.”

Lance pulled him forwards, Keith almost falling on his face if it weren’t for Lance’s hands grabbing hold of him and stabilising him. He felt like an idiot, tripping over his own feet, face a blazing red, but Lance drew him in with confidence, trying to keep him standing and get his feet moving in time.

“Lance, I don’t think-” He said, but Lance cut him off with a shake of his head.

“ _Don’t_ think,” Lance told him, those firm hands grounding him, holding tight.

As soon as Keith felt like he had his feet under him he could breathe easier, focus more on how Lance lead him into moving, could feel the music’s rhythm better. He didn’t notice as a small smile appeared on his lips, or how it began to grow as something clicked and he seemed to better understand what he was supposed to be doing. But Lance noticed, noticed that small break in the brooding façade, noticed Keith letting go and actually allowing himself to enjoy himself.

Lance wasn’t the only one with masks.

Lance dared to push him a little faster, keeping the steps simple and light so that Keith didn’t have to actively think about keeping up. He could just let go, do what felt natural. The room passed in a blur as Lance led him in spins and twirls, manoeuvring the pair of them through the crowd, no longer crashing into other club-goers but moving with them, becoming a part of a physical subconsciousness.

_‘Tonight the music seems so loud_

_I wish that we could lose this crowd_

_Maybe it’s better this way_

_We’d hurt each other with the things we’d want to say.’_

Keith looked up finally, not realising he had been staring down at his feet up until now. Lance’s face was so close to his own, those intense blue eyes sparkling in joy as Lance spun the pair of them, that smile blindingly bright. Again noted just how _real_ Lance seemed here: he didn’t need to put on a show here, he could just _be._ He didn’t care that Keith was a sulk, or couldn’t dance – he just wanted to help Keith see the world of music and colour that he belonged to, keep him safe as he spun him wildly and let him experience it for himself.

Before he knew it Keith was laughing, the sound so light and joyous he couldn’t contain it. It wasn’t a spiteful bark, or a well-controlled chuckle. It was raw, a part of him that he kept hidden away to make sure the harsh world couldn’t get to it. But here he was spinning round and round, every other person a blur, nothing mattering but his steps on the dancefloor and Lance’s hands against him, and he simply couldn’t contain the feeling in his chest.

Lance looked stricken as Keith laughed, his dark eyes fluttering closed, trusting Lance entirely to keep them in one piece amongst the crowd. The harsh edges of his face lifted, leaving behind someone who finally looked his age, who hadn’t been forced to grow up far too soon. Lance felt something warm in his chest, rising to his throat, pushing him to dive in head-first and join Keith in cackling like a mad man. He felt happy – happy that he could give Keith this moment. However small it was, however insignificant.

However, before he succumbed and let that emotion burst forth he glanced over Keith’s shoulder, catching sight of Nadia and James casting suspicious looks his way, whispering to one another behind cupped hands and eyes darting away guiltily as soon as they caught him looking at them.

What were they-?

Lance took a mental step back and looked at himself, at how he was holding a man he barely knew close to his body and teaching him to dance with a dreamy smile on his face. A man who was assuredly _not_ his fiancé.

Lance noted that warm feeling in his chest that had tried to escape, and forced it to harden and crack, to remain trapped and hidden deep within his ribcage, damaged and to be forgotten. With little ceremony he let go of Keith’s hands, regretting the move instantly as Keith stumbled and almost fell with the loss of support.

Keith caught his breath, eyes opening again and darting around them both in a panic, trying to work out what was wrong. “Lance-?”

“Sorry,” Lance gasped, taking a step back. He needed distance, needed to put space between them both. This looked bad – this looked so, _so_ bad. “I need to go. I- I’m sorry.”

Without another word Lance stormed past, eyes firmly fixed on the floor as he barged through the crowd, no longer moving amongst them as one but practically shoving people out of his way in his escape. Keith was frozen, alone and set adrift amid the crowd, cast aside with no idea what he had done to offend Lance and cause such a reaction.

The song ended, and the crowd swallowed him whole as they erupted into applause.

*****

The night wind was biting cold, slicing straight through his thin shirt to chill him to the core. Lance cursed himself for leaving the club in such a rush he had left his jacket at the table, crossing his arms over his front to try and keep warm. He hadn’t brought his keys, but that was okay: Lotor always waited up on him coming in. He would just tell him that he had forgotten his jacket.

Lance hated walking the dark Parisian streets alone: they called up memories he had desperately tried to forget, a shiver crawling down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. He ducked his head and sped up, desperate to be safely in Lotor’s bright flat and away from the looming shadows and uncertain thoughts.

The look on Keith’s face as he stumbled, as he realised that Lance had let him go, kept rising in his mind unbidden. Lance shook his head, trying to dislodge the image that brought the bitter taste of bile to his tongue. He had looked lost, abandoned…

A particularly sharp gust made Lance gasp in shock from the cold, all thoughts stilling except for the pounding, pulsing cold. He just needed to be in a warm bed, away from the dark, and then he could think and work out what was going on in his head.

“Lance?”

His feet stilled as he heard his name called with a soft, feminine voice. That taste of bile was stronger now, his gut churning nauseously in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Anxiety gripped his chest as he saw a figure step out of the shadows ahead of him, blocking his way forward.

“Lance?” She asked again, stepping forwards close enough for Lance to make out the familiar lines of her face. She hadn’t changed a day since he had last seen her three years ago. He didn’t count the days without her anymore, but he knew if he was asked he could give a reasonable estimate for how many days they had been apart.

Her soft lips rose into a tentative smile, dark eyes flashing against the shadows. “It’s good to see you,” She told him, sounding genuinely pleased to see him.

His hands were shaking violently where he held them against his chest, eyes threatening to dry out and fall from his head if he didn’t blink soon. The wind whistled past and suddenly there were tears in his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the moisture running down his cheek as he took her in.

He tried to clear his throat once, twice, tongue a dried husk in his mouth, difficult to manoeuvre around the words he wanted to say. He had dreamed of this moment, written a thousand mental speeches of what he should say to her. But instead he felt himself choke and wither, this costume he had carefully constructed over the past three years decaying away to leave him where he had started: worthless, and nothing without her.

She was looking at him with those eyes that he could still draw picture-perfect from memory, even after all this time, seeming to look directly through him, right into his soul. He felt her there, grasping and pulling him, in every fibre of his being regardless of what he had told himself.

He took a deep breath and forced his tongue to move, only finding himself capable of two words. “Hello, Nyma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So next week's update will be fun...


	4. Grenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things turned sour at the club and only seem to be getting more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday!  
> We're finally getting into some knitty-gritty stuff in this chapter. I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> This week's song is Postmodern Jukebox's cover of 'Grenade', found [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hwsEdFkdjYA)
> 
> TW: this chapter touches on issues with depression and suicidal thoughts, so please be safe when reading. 
> 
> I haven't had a chance to edit this yet (it's a massive chapter...oops) so any early readers please don't yell at me about errors! xx

“You haven’t got a bad pair of legs on you Keith,” Allura said with a teasing grin as he returned to the table, sweeping her sweaty hair back from her face and sipping her drink. “Want me to teach you a few moves? You could make quite the dancer.”

Keith mumbled something unintelligible beneath the music, Shay having moved on to the next song in her set. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling his clothes clinging to his sweaty skin, the air feeling close with a heavy pressure against his chest.

“Where’d Lance go?” Hunk said as he exited the dancefloor, worried after seeing the stormy look on Lance’s face before forcing his way through the dancefloor and out the door.

Eyes seemed to settle on Keith, expecting him to supply answers after their brief dance. He shrank back, hastily saying, “I think he left?”

“Really?” Hunk asked, brow furrowing. His eyes skipped over the table, as though half expecting Lance to be seated there hosting a conversation. “He’s left his jacket behind. I better go after him – he won’t have any keys.”

“I can do it,” Keith offered, desperate for an excuse to leave. “I’m not feeling great.”

“You sure?” Hunk asked, picking Lance’s jacket gently out of the pile dumped atop a chair. “It’s not a problem-”

“It’s fine,” Keith said gruffly, almost snatching the jacket out of Hunk’s hands. “Stay, enjoy yourself. I’ll see you guys later.”

He left without another word, leaving them to explain to Shiro where he had disappeared off to.

He couldn’t stand this close, sticky heat another moment longer. It seemed so much worse now that Lance’s hand wasn’t on the small of his back, keeping him safe in this loud, boisterous world. He ducked his head to hide the blush on his cheeks, cursing himself as he stepped out into the cold Parisian night and retraced the streets back towards the Café.

*****

She grinned wide as she heard his voice say her name, stepping to bridge the space between them. Her eyes were so bright, sparkling even in the dead of night, drawing him in all over again. “What a small world – I’m so glad I ran into you.”

Lance nodded robotically, feeling like her presence had struck him dumb. She hugged her arms against the chill, wearing a short dress and a thin shawl to keep the wind away. If he had remembered to grab his jacket in the club he would have shrugged it off and offered it to her by now.

“How are you?” She asked, ignorant to his paralysed state.

“I-I’m alright,” He told her, almost choking on his words as bottled feelings pressed at his chest and tried to break free, clustering at the base of his throat and making it difficult to breathe. “Just…been out with some friends. How are you?”

“How fun!” She told him. “I hear you’re quite the local celebrity nowadays. That must be nice for you.”

He shrugged, feeling bashful as his cheeks grew red. He rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling oddly guilty, undeserving of her praising tone, “I just do some singing in a local club – some dancing too.”

“That’s not what I hear.” Her light-hearted laugh makes his stomach flip with butterflies.

“…oh?”

“I hear that you’re doing _very_ well,” She tells him smoothly. “A nice apartment, a great job – and a _fiancé_ no less. Who would have thought?”

He feels a thread of unease in his gut as she lists through his life. “Where did you hear all of that?” Lance asks, but she carries on as though he never said a word.

“Rolo and I are envious, sounds like the dream life,” She sighs.

Lance feels his bubbling adoration in his chest turn bitter as bile at her words, past issues finally starting to break through the rose-tinted memories. “You and Rolo are still together-?”

“We’ve had some hard times, especially recently,” She tells him, her lower lip quivering slightly as though she were close to crying. But her eyes are clear as her gaze bores into his, “Guess we just aren’t as lucky as you are.”

“I wouldn’t say luck had anything-”

“It’s not been easy.” She sniffles in the cold, rubs at the end of her reddening nose. “Kind of reminds me of when we were together – we went through a lot with each other, didn’t we?”

“We did-”

“Back then, we would do anything to help the other.” Her mouth curls up into a fond smile, the endearing look a calming balm Lance’s growing suspicions. “No matter the cost, as long as the other was okay.”

“Do you-” Lance swallowed with difficulty, the back of his mind screaming that he was being played but he was entranced, mystified by his first love standing so close after disappearing so long ago. “Do you need some help, Nyma?”

She made sure to look ashamed, breaking his gaze to look to the ground. “It’s not right of me to ask-”

Lance places his hands comfortingly on her shoulders, ducking his head to try and catch her eye again. “What can I do?”

“I need some money,” She says, nibbling at her lower lip.

“Money?”

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” She says hastily, stepping back. “I should just leave-”

“No no, no no no,” Lance panics, reaching for her but stopping short of grabbing her arm. “Wait, I can help. Just – just wait, please.”

Nyma looks at him hopefully, watching carefully as he pats down his pockets and pulls out his wallet. He opens it, counting out the notes there. He has almost 100 francs: the show had been busy tonight, a lot of his regular clients left him a decent tip. Without hesitation he removed the money and holds it out towards Nyma, shaking his hand slightly to prompt her to take it. “Here – it’s yours. I hope it can help.”

“I shouldn’t-” She says, hand twitching to reach forwards.

“You should,” Lance presses, taking her hand in his to press the money to her palm. “I want you to have it. If I can help, I want to.”

“What would I ever do without you?” She says with a wide grin on her face. Lance’s heart clenches painfully in his chest at her words, feeling her take the money and put it in her pocket.

“Do you need a place to stay or anything-?”

“We should be fine now. Thank you, Lance.” She pulls him in for a hug, holding him close for too brief a moment and placing a light kiss to his cheek before letting him go. His eyes flicker closed as he breathed her in, her warm body feeling the exact same in his arms as he remembered. “I better go,” she says quickly, stepping back and leaving Lance’s arms empty.

“Nyma-” He feels panicked as she takes another step away, his arm raising as though to reach after her. She’s leaving, again-

“It really was great seeing you,” She tells him with a small wave. “We should get a coffee and catch up sometime.” The offer sounds like a genuine one, but she turns and leaves before telling him how to contact her.

He isn’t sure what to do as he watches her walk away, feeling the bitter cold in his bones as she disappears from view around a corner, staring after her and terribly confused about what had just happened. The kiss placed to his cheek burns like a scald, a red hot heat against his shivering skin.

******

Keith keeps his head down as he storms through the dark streets, Lance’s jacket held tight in his grip. He had no idea how he was supposed to find Lance, let alone if he even _should_ find him. Clearly he had offended the singer somehow, what good would it do to track him down, even if it was to return his jacket? He huffed into the collar of his jacket, trying to trap the heat there against his chilling skin.

He’s so wrapped up in his own thoughts he very nearly barrels straight into a man standing in the street. Keith just barely manages to avoid a collision, raising his eyes to apologise but the words stalling on his tongue as he sees the knife gripped in the man’s palm.

“Got a problem?” The guy asks, that grip tightening on the blade. His hair is pale and unkempt, straggly bangs hanging long on his face, a dusting of unshaven hair on his chin and small gold hoops in his ears that glint in the streetlights. His eyes are hard and threatening, sparking alarm bells of ‘ _danger_ ’ in Keith’s head.

“Not at all,” Keith tells him, keeping his tone even, giving the man a wide berth as moves past him. He knew well enough from his days on the streets that if you ran into an imposing figure with a weapon in the middle of the night, you had better do your best to avoid a confrontation.

The man’s mouth opens as though he’s going to say something else, but is stopped as a blonde woman appears at his side, casting Keith a suspicious look. “Come on Rolo,” She tells him, gripping his arm, “We’re done here.”

The pair begin to walk, talking amongst themselves, the woman showing the man something in her hand with a bright grin on her face.

Brushing off the strange encounter Keith turned and carried on. It wasn’t the first time he had seen someone suspicious on the streets of Paris, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last. He had learned long ago to just keep his head down and don’t get involved.

He rounded the corner the woman had come from, noticing a man standing shivering in the middle of the street. His initial reaction was to keep his head down and move quickly past him, but something drew his eye back and made him look twice. “Lance?”

Lance turns his head towards the voice and Keith feels his feet still. He looks…awful. There was no better word for it. His face was tight and pale as though he had seen a ghost, his entire body trembling in the cold as the wind whipped through his thin shirt. “Are you okay?” Keith asked, stepping closer until he saw the wet tracks down Lance’s cheeks.

“K-keith?” His voice was hollow, devoid of that bright energy Keith had come to associate with the singer.

“Here,” Keith said, holding his jacket towards him, “It’s freezing.”

Lance looked at the jacket with confusion, taking a moment before reaching forwards and pulling it on. He continued shivering.

“Are you okay?” Keith asked again.

Seeing Lance like this, that divide between his real face and the mask was all the more obvious. Keith could see clearly as Lance attempted to summon that easy-going smile, that off-handed laugh, all to no avail before the tears in Lance’s eyes welled and he crumbled in on himself with quiet sobs.

“Come on.” Keith placed a light hand to Lance’s shoulder, unsure of what was best to do. “We should get you home-”

Keith’s reasoning stopped as arms suddenly circled his waist and he was pulled tight to Lance’s chest, the singer’s face buried in the crook of his neck as he broke into tears. He was on autopilot as his hands came up to rest on Lance’s back, rubbing his palm up and down his spine in what was hopefully a soothing notion.

“I’m sorry,” Lance told him with a rasping breath, words hot against Keith’s skin, “I’m so-”

“Shh, shh,” Keith told him, feeling how Lance trembled against him, “You’re okay.”

“I’m an idiot…” Lance cried. 

“Can I help you get back to Lotor’s?” Keith offered, feeling Lance stiffen against him.

“No, no-” Lance said, shaking his head. “He can’t see me like this-”

“Are you sure-?”

Lance pushed against him, hands holding Keith’s shoulders as he looked at him with a firm intensity Keith hadn’t previously seen from him. “Keith, he _can’t_ see me like this.”

“Why not? He can help-”

“ _Please_ Keith,” He pled, those blue eyes wide with panic, voice shaking and desperate. “He can’t know – I am _not_ like this anymore.”

The way Lance said that…it sounded like he was trying to convince himself, the voice unsure and thick with fake certainty. 

“O-okay,” Keith promised, more than a little confused. “Well, can I help you get home?”

Lance shook his head, realising how he was standing and releasing Keith shoulders quickly. “I should be okay-”

“ _Should_ be.” Keith tried to give him the most reassuring smile he could. “Please, Lance. It would make me feel better to know you’ve gotten home safe.”

Lance looked sheepish, eyes casting to the ground as he crossed his arms across his chest and held himself cold. “I’ll be fine,” He said. “Besides, I stay back near the club: I wouldn’t make you walk all that way-”

“Nonsense,” Keith said gently. “Shiro clearly hasn’t told you where we live – I need to walk past the club to get home.” He gestured ahead with a slight nod of his head, pointing with his chin, “Come on, we’re both going the same way.”

Lance nibbled his lip. “If you’re sure-”

“What else are you going to do?” Keith deadpanned with a raised brow. “Wait here until I’m out of sight before beginning to walk home?”

That made the corner of Lance’s mouth quirk up, and he sighed in defeat. “Fine, fine,” He relinquished with a roll of his eyes. “You drive a hard bargain, Red.”

The pair began to walk in tandem, moving quickly against the night’s chill with hands under their armpits for warmth. Keith felt the iced air against his skin, raking chilling touches through his hair as it blustered around him. His breath was a silvery fog, taken from his lips in an instant by that incessant wind.

It was strange, having someone like Lance be so quiet at his side. Keith had come to associate the singer with energy and light and a stubbornness in demanding conversation. But right now Lance was a ghost of that idea, quiet and contemplative as they hurried on their way. He kept his eyes focused ahead while he continued to nibble at the edge of his lip, close to drawing blood but carrying on regardless. It was almost eerie, this quiet figure.

But Keith didn’t mind the quiet – he was well used to it and found comfort in the silence. In the quiet you couldn’t say something stupid you would regret. Couldn’t shatter ideals people had for you, or land yourself in a whole heap of trouble. So he accepted it and didn’t push, trying to ignore the gaping chasm that would usually be filled by Lance.

Keith wasn’t sure when he had grown so accustomed to Lance they he could note this behaviour as strange – the two really hadn’t know each other long, and had managed only a couple sparse conversations in that time. Keith decided not to think on it.

The club loomed, its blazing red lights switched off at this time of the night and turning it into a normal grey building, blending in with its neighbours. Keith almost walked clean past it, only noticing where they were when Lance veered to their right and opened the door to a building.

“So…this is me,” Lance told him, looking sheepish with himself. It seemed such a pointless statement to choose to break the silence between them, so obvious.

Keith nodded to himself, the creative part of his mind imagining him crouching forwards and taking Lance’s hand in his, kissing the top lightly before bidding himself adieu – the model of chivalry. Instead he remained standing stiffly, waving the silly scene to the back of his mind. “I hope you’re okay,” He found himself saying. He wasn’t sure what had brought him to say it, but it was true nonetheless. He smiled a small, half smile before saying, “Goodnight, Lance,” turning to leave.

“Wait.”

The unexpected command did its job and he stopped in his tracks, looking back to Lance curiously.

Lance shuffled on his feet for a moment, looking around suspiciously as though he were afraid someone was watching them, hand still resting on the door handle. “Would you- would you like to come in? I have wine, or coffee?” His voice sounded so uncertain, as though he felt increasingly stupid as he spoke. “To thank you…for walking me home. And bringing me my jacket.”

Keith considered for a long moment, not sure what he was supposed to do, an internal war raging between getting to know Lance better and the fear of letting himself _be_ known. Lance clearly saw the look of debate on his face as he was quick to cut in, “It’s fine if not. Don’t worry-”

“It’s a bit late for coffee.”

Lance’s words stopped as he noted Keith stepping back towards him, clearly having made a decision. “Huh?”

“Your offer – coffee?” Keith said shyly. “It’s just…it’s a bit late for a coffee, isn’t it?”

Lance paused a moment longer before breaking into a soft chuckle, finally stepping into the stairwell and holding the door open for Keith. “Wine it is then.”

Lance’s apartment was three floors up, the pair silent as Lance held a finger to his lips. “My neighbours,” He whispered, gesturing to the tall stairwell, “Sound echoes out here.”

They reached the correct floor and Lance fumbled with his keys, hand shaking from the remaining cold at his core as he struggled to open the door. He managed it after a minute, apologising quietly before opening the door and welcoming Keith inside.

Lance’s apartment was nice: nicer than his at least. It was tastefully decorated, looking as though someone had put thought into the arrangement of furniture instead of buying whatever had been cheapest like in his and Shiro’s place.

“Sorry about the mess,” Lance said with slightly red cheeks, picking a shirt up from the couch. “We’ve been pretty busy the past few days.”

“We?” Keith couldn’t stop himself from asking, glancing around as though the Duke were about to appear from thin air.

“Hunk and I,” Lance said, bustling around and righting the room, stressing about a mess that Keith frankly couldn’t see: the room looked perfectly fine to him. “With Shiro’s party last week and rehearsals, things have kind of gotten on top of us.”

“Hunk?”

“The piano guy?” Lance told him, finally stopping his panicked tidying and turning back to Keith. “Big guy, you were talking earlier-”

“No, I know who you mean,” Keith cut in. “I was just meaning – you live with Hunk?”

“Well yeah,” Lance chuckled, leading him through to a small kitchen with a wave of his hand. “You expect me to be able to pay rent on a flat in the centre of Paris by myself?”

“I thought you were some big hotshot singer?” Keith said, accepting the glass of wine that Lance pressed into his hand and automatically taking a sip. It was a dark red, sharp and acidic, making Keith wrinkle his nose. Red certainly wasn’t his favourite, but it was wine and at this time in the morning that was enough.

Lance cackled loudly at that, throwing his head back. “I wish!” He laughed, the red liquid in his glass sloshing as he tried to calm himself. “I get a lot of people come and listen to me, pretend they care. But then they go home and we all go on with our days.”

While Lance seemed amused at the statement, Keith worried he had said something wrong. “I’m sorry,” He apologised. “I just assumed, with all those people-”

“Don’t be,” Lance shushed him. “Sorry, that is. I find it flattering. And who knows,” he shrugged to himself, “Maybe one day I will make it a reality. I love the Café, but I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t like to go farther. One day.”

Keith leaned back against the counted and nodded his head thoughtfully. With each sip the wine assaulted his senses less, warmed his gut a little bit more. Their kitchen was quaint, though Keith couldn’t imagine two people cooking in here at once. Even with the pair of them standing still the kitchen felt crowded, Keith feeling Lance’s presence in his personal comfort zone, the sharp scent of wine mixing with the residual sweat on their bodies from the club.

“And you?” Lance questioned with a wistful look on his face.

“And me?” Keith echoed, having learned enough to be wary when Lance asked him questions.

“What will you be doing?” Lance smiled, “One day.”

“Haven’t you asked me a similar question before?” Keith deflected, smirking at the singer.

“And haven’t you avoided answering me before?” Lance shot back with a quirked eyebrow. “Come on, why don’t you want to tell me?”

“What if there’s nothing to tell? What if I haven’t planned that far ahead – that I haven’t found something I want to do?”

“No,” Lance drew out the word, taking a moment to appraise the look in Keith’s eye. “If that were the case you wouldn’t be acting so shifty. I sense that you’re an upfront person and you would just tell me.”

“Well, let me be the first to confirm that there’s nothing-”

“That’s a lie.”

It was Keith’s turn to raise an eyebrow at that, surprise clear on his face. “Oh? And why would you think that?”

“I can see it on your face,” Lance told him, and for some reason Keith believed him. “You’re hiding something behind those stoic features. And the more you’re trying to bury it the more I can see.”

“What makes you so sure?” Keith teased, mildly impressed with Lance’s brazen confidence.

“Because I’m more than just a pretty face,” Lance promised him, “And I’ve had my fair share of people hide things from me.” He smiled very kindly at that even though Keith caught a flash of hurt in his eyes. “You’re clearly passionate about something. My guess is that’s why you’re so scared to talk about it – but you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“Lance, I hardly know you.” Keith tried to keep his voice kind as he said the words: even though it was the truth he didn’t want to hurt the guy.

“I know,” Lance nodded. “And doesn’t that make it better? Sharing something so important with someone you don’t know – someone who can’t judge you.”

“I’ll consider telling you. If,” Keith says, noting the hope dawning on Lance’s face, “You tell me why you care so much.”

Lance pondered a moment, tapping the edge of his glass to his lips in thought. “It’s not that I _care_ so much as I am curious.”

“Curious? About what?”

“Your reaction,” he said. “Because despite all of my persistent questioning, never once have you told me that its private or that you didn’t want to talk about it. You deflect, you lie, but you don’t outright tell me to leave it alone. I’m curious because I think it’s something you desperately want to talk about but you won’t let yourself.”

“And if I told you now to leave it alone?”

“I would respect it, of course. I pride myself on being a stand-up guy,” Lance says with a cheeky wink. “Tell me to leave it alone, and I will.”

Keith stayed silent a moment, turning his full attention to the wine in his hand. He swirled the red liquid in the glass, watch it slosh against the sides in a hypnotic manner. He takes a long, hard gulp of it and, with a defeated sigh, finds himself saying, “I want to write.”

If Lance is surprised by the admission he doesn’t show it. Instead he nods with a mild degree of interest. “Write what?”

“I think it’s my turn to ask a question,” Keith grins.

Lance rolls his eyes with a lazy smile, “Fine, fine, equal exchange. I’m an open book, ask away!”

“What is it you want to do, after the club?”

Lance smirks teasingly, “You are basically stealing my question for you.”

“Tell me to leave it alone and I’ll leave it alone,” Keith mocks and makes Lance laugh.

“Fair fair,” Lance raises his hands in surrender. “Lotor has told me I could easily be the most famous singer in Paris. I think I’d like to do that.”

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“I’m not, if truth be told.” Lance’s words felt raw and honest, like he were simply thinking out loud. “I’ve been at the Café for so long, gone through so much there, I love it with every fibre of my being. But it’s only natural to move on from these places and grow.”

“Are those your words, or his?”

Lance looked taken aback for a second, Keith’s words seeming to hit him in a raw spot. “My turn,” Lance told him, deigning to withhold his answer. “What do you like to write?”

“Fiction,” Keith says, giving it very little thought.

“But fiction about _what?_ Come on,” Lance pleads with him, “You can’t expect me to accept a one word answer.”

“I’m…I’m not entirely sure,” Keith says honestly, noting how Lance kept quiet and allowed him to consider the question. “I tend to write what interests me. So I suppose…tales of people. Adventure. Romance.”

“Romance interests you?” Lance asks, those bright eyes seeming to look right through him, and Keith blushes a bright red.

“Maybe? I don’t know,” Keith splutters, trying to calm his raging cheeks. “Like I said, I write what I like!”

Lance laughs to himself, sipping his wine and distracting Keith from his turmoil by saying, “Your turn. Shoot.”

“Erm…” Keith’s embarrassment had burned away the list of questions he had been assembling behind his eyes. He wracked his brain, looking around the cramped space for inspiration for something to say. “How did you meet Hunk?”

Something sharp flashes in Lance’s eyes before he could stop it, quickly stumbling to mask it as he hastily replies, “Must be three years ago now. He’s the one who got me hired in the club.” His smile has a strained edge as he sips at his wine, acting nonchalant as he avoids Keith’s eye.

He decides not to point out that Lance didn’t answer his question.

Both of their heads turn as they hear the fumbling of keys at the door, a muted curse as those keys are dropped on the ground.

“Hunk,” Lance explains, though his eyebrow quirks as he hears a feminine giggle from beyond the door. “And a woman, no less.” He grins, “Maybe he finally put the moves on Shay?”

Keith drains his glass and places it down on the counter. “I guess I should go-”

“No,” Lance says quickly, automatically grabbing the wine bottle and topping up Keith’s glass, “Stay. I’d rather not stay here alone and listen to the sounds of Hunk falling in love through the walls.”

Keith feels conflicted, unsure if he should remain or not. He opens his mouth, planning on declining his offer, but is stopped as Lance grabs the wine bottle with one hand and Keith’s wrist with the other, pulling him out of the kitchen towards one of the rooms. “Lance?”

“If he realises I’m here he’ll get all bashful and shy,” Lance explains, pulling Keith into the room and closing the door just as the lock finally turns. “And I will not be the reason he doesn’t finally start dating that girl. He’s been smitten for months now.”

“But-”

“Shh!” Lance hisses. “Lower your voice – we don’t want them to hear us.”

Its silly, these nerves in his stomach as he hears the pair enter the flat. Lance’s excitement is infectious, and it takes Keith a solid minute before he realises that he’s now standing in the middle of Lance’s room.

It’s…a lot plainer than he imagined. Bed left unmade from the previous morning, no trinkets or personal items adorning the shelves. There are some clothes on the floor, but other than that there really isn’t much of a trace of Lance in this place.

Lance seems to realise where they are standing right now, turning to Keith with a nervous giggle and swigging from the bottle of wine. “Sorry,” He whispers, “Apparently this was my knee-jerk reaction, to hide in here.”

Keith shrugs, not wholly minding. “It’s okay. Though you know we’re going to have to hide in here for a while.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Lance promised. “Hunk will take her into his room and then-” Lance pauses as they both hear someone flop down onto the sofa, Hunk offering Shay a drink and walking into the kitchen. Lance’s eyes widen slightly as he side-eyes Keith, “Okay, so my man is a gentleman and doesn’t just take girls straight to his room. Who says chivalry is dead?”

“We could just walk out and-”

“No way!” Lance cries as loudly as he dares. “We cannot blow this for him, he’s liked her for _so_ long. Nothing can mess this up!”

“Why would us going out there mess it up?”

Lance pointed an accusing finger towards him, “It’s not a risk I am willing to take.”

Keith raises an eyebrow, “And how do you plan to stop me?”

The challenge sparks a dangerous light in Lance’s eyes as he shifts into a grounded stance, preparing for Keith to try and rush him. “You want to try me?” He grins.

Keith rolls his eyes and turns his attention to his wine. The only place in the room to sit is the bed and, while the suggestion of invading an intimate aspect of Lance’s life makes him nervous, there’s no way he’s going to stay locked in here for hours on his feet. He daintily sets himself down at the foot of the bed, crossing his legs and sipping at his wine. Its topping up the comforting warmth the whisky had given him earlier in the night, before being dragged to the dancefloor and the chilling walk home.

That flirtatious side of Lance’s – _act, it’s an act!_ – comes out, his responding smile sultry as his eyes pass down Keith’s body. “My my, I didn’t expect to be able to get you into my bed so easily.”

Keith rolls his eyes, ignoring how his breath hitches in his chest. “I’m sure your _fiancé_ would love to hear how easy I am.”

The mention of Lotor sobers Lance, switching that flirtatious act off almost instantly. With tired legs Lance leans against the door and slides down to the floor, stretching his legs out in the space between the pair, subconsciously acting as an effective blockage to keep them both trapped in the room.

“So who’s turn was it?” Lance asks.

It takes Keith a moment to remember their game of questions back in the kitchen, “Erm, yours I think?”

“Okay,” Lance ponders a moment, “So you want to write…are you writing anything right now?”

“I am,” Keith tells him, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Would you tell me the story?” An idea strikes him and he sits up a little taller with excitement, “Oh oh - let me read it? Please!”

“No,” He says firmly, watching Lance’s face fall in disappointment.

“What? Come on,” Lance begs. “I’m sure it’s great!”

“It’s…it’s private,” Keith tries to explain as he shies from Lance’s probing stare, tries to hide the panic in his gut at the mere idea that someone would read his words.

Something clicks in Lance’s brain as he sees the harsh lines of anxiety on his face. “Keith,” He asks gently, trying to catch his eye, “Have you ever shown anyone your writing before?”

Keith answers with strict silence.

“Have you shown Shiro? Does Shiro even _know_?”

He sighs, but its all the answer Lance needs.

“Why not! If you care about it, you should share it.”

“It’s not that simple, Lance.”

“Why can’t it be?”

Despite himself, he can feel that gentle tone of Lance’s pushing at his mental boundaries, worming his way inside. He wanted to hold back, keep this part of him in the dark, but for some reason he felt like he wanted to give Lance an answer, wanted to be honest. “It’s…” He struggles to find the words, anxiety threatening to close in and keep him from speaking entirely, “It’s scary, Lance. Terrifying.”

Lance nods and seems to understand. “That’s a good thing though.”

“How?” Keith exasperatedly says. “It just becomes this wonderful ideal world that I’ll never get to.”

“Scary is good Keith,” He says with confidence. “Scary means it matters – means it’s _important._ You care about it – that’s not a bad thing.”

Again Keith finds the words elude him, leaving him mute.

“Shiro’s important to you,” Lance says. He somehow becomes a voice of reason, this boy who Keith has known for so little time. It’s like those blue eyes can see right through him to the core, see all those places he keeps safe and hidden. “He loves you, and I know for a fact he would feel honoured if you chose to share this part of you.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“I can,” He promises, and Keith believes him. “I’ve been in a similar place before. And it’s uncertain, and terrifying, like willingly giving up a piece of yourself. But you know what?” He pauses for dramatic effect, as though double checking Keith is listening to him. “It was worth it.”

Keith runs a hand through his hair, wishing he could find the strength to disagree with Lance. “So what did you share?” Keith asks, needing the focus off of him.

Lance grins, keeping his secret behind those white teeth, “You consider telling Shiro – and I mean _really_ consider it – and I will tell you. Deal?”

He rolls his eyes, “We will see.”

“Yes we shall,” Lance’s grin stays in place, as if he can read the future and knows exactly how this will end up.

“Couldn’t I just ask you to tell me?” That warmth of wine in his gut is spreading through him slowly, leaving his body light and tingling, and he can hear the teasing edge that creeps into his voice. He slides off of the bed, not enjoying looking down on Lance, and settles on the floor, leaning his back against the mattress, stretching his legs out around Lance’s. “It is my turn to give you a question, after all.”

Lance’s grin shifts to a confident smirk, those eyes daring him to ask. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The mood between them shifts to something lighter, each taking their turn to ask the other silly little questions: first kiss, worst job, most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to them? At one point Keith snorts and almost sprays wine out of his nose, Lance giggling as he claps a hand to Keith’s back, simultaneously knocking the wind from him while trying to help him get his breath back. The pair crumble into poorly restrained laughter after that, both trying to shush the other with concern for Hunk’s date.

Keith drains his second glass of wine, setting it at his side and bringing a knee up to lean his chin on. Lance’s face is lax with wine, the pair of them comfortably drunk sitting on the bedroom floor. He lets his dark eyes bore into Lance, trying to read him with the ease that Lance himself displays. He laughs under Keith’s scrutiny, sipping more wine before offering the bottle to Keith. He accepts, taking the extra moments to formulate a new question. 

“Would you say we’re friends?” Lance asks him, voice quiet. Keith is taken aback for a moment, barely catching the words.

“Hey, it’s my turn!” Keith bursts, preparing to tease Lance’s short term memory but stopping as he sees the hollow look on his face. It’s the same look Lance had when Keith found him earlier, stunned and frozen in the streets of Paris, pale as a ghost.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” Lance says, laughing nervously and running a hand through his hair. The brown strands end up standing on end, left in a rumbled state from whatever product was applied to them for the show the night before. “What’s your question?”

“Why do you want to know if we’re friends?” Keith asks, his previous question forgotten.

Lance twirls a strand of hair between his fingers, looking to Keith with a surprised look on his face. “Just forget about it, I guess I’m a bit drunk-”

“Why did you want to know?” Keith repeats.

“I was just curious.”

“That’s all?”

“It’s just…” Lance tries to find the words. “I like to be upfront. I don’t like people putting up with me because they feel obligated to.”

“Where did you get that idea-?”

“Forget it. Please,” Lance tells him, the sharp look in his eyes silencing Keith.

“What happened tonight?” Keith asks, Lance’s face still heavy under that haunted look. “When I found you-?”

Lance’s eyes grew wide with panic. “Hey, it’s getting late-”

“I thought we shouldn’t disturb Hunk-?”

“I haven’t heard them in a while, they’ve probably gone-”

“Lance?”

Lance froze in his stammering, zeroing in on Keith’s face.

“Would _you_ say we’re friends?” He asks, echoing Lance’s previous words.

A tiny smile. “You’re stealing my questions again.”

Keith copies that weak smile. “We never made any rules against it.”

He rolls his eyes but there’s no real sass behind it, the reaction a poorly posed front. But he gives himself away as he nibbles at his bottom lip, a crack in the tired façade. “I’d like to be,” He admits, almost too quiet for Keith to hear. “You seem like a good person. Can’t hurt to have someone like that as a friend.”

Pride blooms in his chest at the compliment. Keith wouldn’t personally call himself a good person: reserved maybe. An asshole, definitely. But the idea that Lance thought he was a good person…it made him feel like one, even if only for a moment. “I think you’re a good person too.”

He’s taken aback as Lance laughs bitterly, the sharp sound foreign coming from Lance’s mouth. “You couldn’t be further from the truth,” He says cruelly, though the hard words aren’t directed at Keith.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Why shouldn’t you?” Lance snaps. Keith watches the carefree singer twist into something darker before him, a snarling creature with its hackles raised in warning. “You barely know me, Keith. Don’t presume to know me.”

“Lance-”

“You don’t know where I’ve been – what I’ve _done.”_

Keith thinks to raise a hand and place it to Lance, something to comfort him, but Lance flinches violently at the gesture. “Lance, it’s okay-”

“It’s not, Keith – it’s _not_ okay. I can pretend all I like, but…” He swallows with difficulty, swiping a hand to his eyes to keep tears from falling, “But it’s not been okay for a long time. And it won’t be okay for much, much longer.”

“Alright, it’s not okay,” Keith nodded, keeping his voice gentle. “But I can listen and help, if you would like me to. We’re friends, after all.”

That harsh front dips for a moment, innocent shinning eyes looking at him, “We are?”

“You’re the only person who knows I like to write,” Keith tells him, daring to scoot a little closer to the distressed singer. “I can’t risk making an enemy of you.”

Lance snorts at that, regaining some part of himself. He rubs at his nose and sniffles, telling him quietly, “You really don’t want to know-”

“But I want to help,” Keith interjected. “If you want to talk about it, I want to know.”

“O-okay,” Lance’s voice shakes. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You’re allowed to despise me,” Lance states, “After. You aren’t allowed to feel guilty for thinking I’m a bad person after.”

“Lance-”

“Promise me, Keith.” He sits up and holds his arm out, raising his pinkie. “I don’t want or need your pity-friendship.”

He appraises that pinkie for a moment before reaching forwards and linking it with his own. “I promise,” He says, looking deep into Lance’s eyes. He wants to be up front with Lance, as transparent as the singer asks of him.

Lance nods to himself and takes several long swigs of wine, almost finishing the bottle before handing it to Keith. “Finish it,” He tells him, “I shouldn’t have any more.”

Keith sips at the remaining dregs, waiting patiently for whatever Lance has to say. They could sit here for minutes or hours and it wouldn’t matter. Keith could tell how important it was for him to wait, how pivotal this moment was, and he refused to break it.

“Have you-” Lance clears his throat, feeling as though his voice were brittle as glass. “Have you ever been in love, Keith?”

He waits for the Keith’s shake of the head, and he nods. “Neither have I,” He says truthfully. “But I thought I was, for a long time.

“It’s a dangerous thing, being that obsessed with someone. You open yourself up to them, and they can crawl inside and take control of who you are, twist and shape you however they want. And I didn’t care, because I was in love and she was all I needed.”

Keith’s mind flashes back to that blank look on Lance’s face when he found him earlier, the suspicious look of a blonde-haired girl, the flash of a knife-

“I was happy,” Lance says, his eyes seemingly focused on a spot on the wall, but Keith suspected he was somewhere far away from here. “I was so, _so_ happy. We had nothing except each other, and that was fine because she was all I needed. Like in a fairy tale.”

But Lance’s eyes go hard as he says, “What they don’t tell you in fairy tales is that love isn’t enough to fill your starving bellies, or keep a roof over your heads. It won’t keep you from getting sick, or snapping at each other. It won’t keep her from crying in your arms, no matter how tightly you hold her.

“We were desperate, and we didn’t know what to do. We didn’t have the skills for decent work, and everything that we _could_ get, well…it wouldn’t make a difference quickly enough. We were at the end of things.”

He swallows with difficulty. “Then she…she makes a suggestion. She tells me that she plans to sell herself, her body, for whoever pays. She tells me it’s for me: she loves me, and would do anything for me. Tells me that she would give up this part of herself, for me.”

That cruel laugh again. “But, of course, I couldn’t let her do that. I _loved_ her: I would protect her, any way I could. I made her promise not to do such a thing – if one of us was going to enter that way of living it would be me. I would do whatever I needed to keep her safe.

“And the next night, I started my new line of work.” Lance grimaced at the memories, pulling his knees up to his chest and hugging them tightly. “It was humiliating, and sickened me to my stomach, but every minute I was there was a godsend because it meant she was home, and she was safe. Through everything – every false kiss and wandering hand, every filthy word said to me – I thought of her, and her smile, and her voice. I let my body became an unfeeling shell beneath the hands of others, thinking of her, until money was placed in my hands and I could go home to her. And when I walked in and saw her sleeping in bed, her blonde hair strewn across the pillow, the exhaustion and humiliation melted away and it was worth it.” He sniffled and his voice broke, “It was _worth it,_ Keith. Every moment, selling my body and soul, I didn’t regret a moment of it. Because of _her.”_

“Lance-”

“I lost a lot of myself in that time. Giving pieces of myself to others, to _her,_ I really was becoming a shell of a person, that feeling becoming permanent instead of just when I was meeting others. It scared me, so I held onto her tightly, lost countless nights’ sleep watching her, reminding myself that it was worth it, worth it, that even though I was empty her love filled and sustained me. It was all I needed.

“Then things turned scary. It was in the news for weeks, bodies turning up in back alleys, horrible things having been done to these poor people. And whoever did it always paid their way, leaving a pile of cash on each mutilated corpse. I was scared: these people who were dying, none of them were publicly named. They were the dregs of society, filthy faceless whores who didn’t even deserve a proper goodbye. I didn’t want to be like them.” A tear escapes his eye and trails down his cheek, dripping onto his shirt. “I didn’t want to end up like them. I wanted to stop.

“But Nyma said I couldn’t – we couldn’t go back to that way of living again. We would die, we wouldn’t survive, and I believed her. Putting myself at risk was the only way to keep her safe. It was terrifying, every minute on the streets thinking my next customer would be my end, but I had to do it.

“I got myself a knife: just something small, discreet that I could hide in my clothes. It made me feel safe, having its weight against me as I talked with customers. And for a while, things were fine.”

The tears were falling regularly now and Keith touched Lance’s leg, feeling guilty as the singer flinched violently beneath his fingers. Lance turned his face to Keith’s, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “You don’t need to go back there, Lance.”

“Things weren’t fine,” Lance’s voice broke. “They, they weren’t- they weren’t-”

He crumpled in on himself as the sobs hit, a shaking hand covering his mouth to try and keep his noises to himself. “They _weren’t-_ ”

Keith comes forward, not knowing exactly what he’s doing but pulling at Lance’s shoulders and bringing him into an embrace, firm arms circling him and holding him as the singer cried into his shirt. Lance’s entire body was shaking like a leaf, his breath’s shallow and broken with sobs.

“He c-came at me,” Lance blubbered. “He had been asking me t-to d-do things I wasn’t okay with. I got scared, I-I told him to keep his money. But he g-grabbed me, threw me on the ground and I hit my head.”

Keith tried to hold Lance tight enough to stop that trembling, trying to ground him.

“I rolled onto my back and he landed on me, clamped his h-hands around my throat.” Lance had to stop himself as he couldn’t keep from crying for a minute, burying his face in Keith’s chest. “I couldn’t breathe, Keith. It was terrifying – I could see it so plainly, how I was going to die in that alley, a shunned whore. Everything was fading away, and no matter how hard I tried to think of Nyma I couldn’t look beyond his face. It was going to be the last thing I ever saw.

“I-I got the knife out, and I…I stabbed it upwards. I didn’t care where it hit, I just needed him off. I needed to breathe.

“He gasped and- and he fell off to the side. After that, it’s all a blur. I left him and ran, gasping as I tried to breathe but my throat, it was so sore. I was getting so light-headed, having to keep stopping to catch my breath. I was terrified, convinced that he was going to catch up to me.”

“You can’t be blamed, Lance,” Keith whispered. “You saved yourself.”

“I-I made it home,” Lance told him. “I couldn’t believe it when I got to our door. It was like the stars had aligned – I was alive because I was protecting her. I had been saved.

“And then I went inside.”

Lance’s hands gripped into the fabric of Keith’s shirt, tight enough that the nails scratched Keith’s skin even through the material. “I went into our bedroom, and there she was. She- she was with _him._ ”

Straggly bangs…the flash of a knife…

“I was home early, I wasn’t supposed to be back…” He swallowed around the words. “I wasn’t supposed to be there. I wasn’t supposed to find them.

“But I did, and then she looked at me and saw the blood on my hands, on my shirt, the bruises on my neck. And she knew, she _knew_ what had happened. She screamed, shouted that I had damned us.

“I-I tried to ask about the man, but she was so loud. I wasn’t supposed to be back. W-what did I expect to happen? I was so weak, so _pathetic –_ how could she expect me to protect her? She needed a real man.

“T-the blood, the bruises – they were m-my fault.”

“No – no Lance, they weren’t.” Lance opened his mouth to disagree but Keith clung tightly and shushed him.

“It’s my fault,” He says weakly into Keith’s chest, shaking his head as Keith tries to tell him otherwise.

They sit like that a long time, Keith having nothing to say and Lance unable to say anything else. So they stay and he holds Lance and tries to help anyway he can as Lance cries against him until the tears run out.

He doesn’t move, just rubs his hand up and down Lance’s back, running fingers through his hair, until Lance clears his throat and tells him that he should go. Keith asks if he’s sure and he nods, pushing him away and rubbing at his eyes.

Keith does as Lance asks, hoping it’s the right decision. He looks back as Lance closes the apartment door on him with a mumbled, “Sorry,” wanting to tell him he had nothing to apologise for but not getting the chance. He sighs, considers knocking on the door, but turns away and leaves.

The sun is beginning to rise as he exits Lance’s building and starts the walk home. He’s tired and confused and his thoughts are all wrapped up in Lance, and as he walks he doesn’t notice the pair of familiar figures standing across the road, looking between him and the window of Lance’s apartment before whispering to one another.

He gets in the house and retrieves his supplies, scattering them across the kitchen table. As the sun rises he writes, scrawling hasty words on the page as quickly as he can, wanting to think about something other than the awful times that Lance has gone through.

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep, cheek pressed against the freshly written page.

*****

Moments of sleep are few and far between, jerking awake violently with a forehead covered in sweat. Lance rolls over and tries to hide his face in his pillow, tries another moment of sleep before it all repeats again.

He dreams of arms holding him tight, of Keith’s comforting voice. He dreams of blood on his hands, of Keith falling away from him as he bleeds onto the floor. He dreams of climbing over Keith, tries to rouse him. But he only ends up with more blood on his hands, dripping off his fingers in large red drops. He screams and Keith looks at him with anger as he bleeds out.

_Your fault._

_This is your fault!_

Lance tries to speak but he ends up coughing, coughing, blood bubbling out his throat and choking him. He looks down and it’s he who is covered in blood, deep wounds in his chest as Nyma stands over him. He reaches for her but she’s too far, he can’t touch her with his fingers sticky with blood. The blood fills his throat and he can’t breathe, an unbelieving pressure.

_Idiot._

_Whore._

_Murderer._

He tries to tell her, tries to get the words out past the blood. It was for her - for _her_. He can’t lose her! He can’t live without her. He did it for her, it’s not his fault, he did it-

_For you._

_You did it for you._

_You’re the one who whored himself out._

_This is your fault, Lance._

No-

_You did this._

Nyma-

_This is what you do._

Please-

_You destroy lives._

Don’t-

_You bring pain and suffering._

Don’t leave-

_You ruined my life._

Please stay-!

_You don’t deserve to live._

He feels sick, nauseous and weak, as he stands on the wall, toes hanging over the edge. The wind pushes at him, ghostly hands at his back pushing, pushing-

_I don’t want you anymore._

He’s crying. He doesn’t want to, doesn’t want-

_Who would miss you?_

He can’t breathe. He’s dying, up here in the wind, he’s-

_I won’t._

He can’t.

_He can’t-_

He jumps.

*****

He’s grateful that the club is quiet tonight: it’s midweek, and most of his customers are saving their money for the weekend.

Hunk gives him a practised look as Lance suddenly changes the line-up, adding in an additional song at the start. But he knows better than to ask. So he tells the band what they’ll be opening with and lets Lance get on with his rehearsal.

“Lance!”

He hears his name shouted and he flinches, panic instant in his chest. A figure with blond hair marches up to him and his eyes blur, he feels faint-

“Lance? Where did you go?”

“What?” He blinks through the fog and finds Lotor in front of him, face screwed up in irritation.

“Where did you go, last night? I waited all night and you didn’t come home!”

“Oh,” Lance says dumbly, trying to shake himself awake. “I’m sorry-”

“Sure you are,” Lotor scoffs. “Sorry enough to have a good night’s sleep and then come in to work like everything is right with the world. For once would you think about someone other than yourself?”

“I’m sorry, Lotor. I, I just-”

“I don’t want to hear excuses,” Lotor silences him with a wave of his hand. “I need to go, I just wanted to check you made it home alive.” Lotor steps away, pausing and saying over his shoulder, “I’m glad you’re okay,” before leaving.

He stands like an idiot and leans heavily against the wall, letting himself shut down for a short time. His blood pounds in his ears and he replies robotically to anyone who speaks to him, finding himself moved to sit at a table with a cup of tea in front of him. Hunk keeps him silent company, there if he needs him.

He makes himself get ready for the show, telling himself that every forced minute is another minute closer to getting home. The stage lights dazzle him as they shine down, and he holds to the mic stand for dear life as he sings. He keeps the tears locked deep inside and makes sure he gets through the song, tries to connect with his words and remind himself of how far he’s come.

But the final chorus keeps him from believing it. Because, despite everything, when she finally came back, he didn’t even hesitate before jumping at the chance to help her again.

_‘You said you love me, you’re a liar_

_Because you never, ever, ever did_

_But darling?_

_I’d **still** catch a grenade for you.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what did we think?  
> I'd love to hear how you guys are finding this, and where you think the story will go.  
> Views, kudos and comments just add to my motivation so feel free to leave your mark here :)  
> See you all next week for Chapter 5!!!


	5. Seven Nation Army

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grapevine whispers and Keith faces a daunting choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday!  
> I hope you've all had as wonderful a week as you can (for me I've been ignoring exams since they've been delayed, and lying in a patch of sun in the living room...)
> 
> This week's song is (you guessed it) Postmodern Jukebox's version of 'Seven Nation Army', found [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sB6HY8r983c)
> 
> Disclaimer: as an important point, this fanfic is a work of fiction. I obviously don't claim to be the creator/writer of the many songs featured in this fanfic. I have no creative claim to such pieces, and they are the legal property of their original creators and distributors.

His back is _aching._ Keith groans and sits up, hissing at the stiffness in his joints. The sound of paper hitting the ground makes his eyes open in a panic, needing a minute to work out why he’s at the kitchen table. Sheets of paper have been pushed off onto the floor in his sleep, and a pot of ink had been knocked over, its contents spilling across the table and soaking into paper he thankfully hadn’t used yet. He cursed as he leapt up and grabbed a cloth, trying to clean the mess as best he could before it could stain the table. In his panic he didn’t even notice as a door in the apartment opened and steps came up behind him.

Shiro chuckled, looking over Keith’s shoulder, “What’s going on here?”

Keith whirled round with wide eyes, stammering and stunned as to what to say. His eyes darted over his writing supplies in a panic, trying to come up with an excuse for what he was doing. Why did he come home in the middle of the night and decide to pull all of this out? He shouldn’t be allowed to drink!

“Erm, Keith?” Shiro said, tapping at his cheek with a pointed look.

Keith’s hand mirrored Shiro’s and he touched his face, blinking in confusion as his fingers came away stained black. He swore again and rushed to the kitchen sink, dipping his head beneath the faucet and attempting to wash the ink off.

“What’s this?” Shiro asked curiously.

He whirled back to Shiro, his straggly hair damp and sticking to his forehead, his hand reaching forwards as though he could physically stop Shiro from across the room. “Wait-!”

Shiro was peering down at the scrawled words, pages Keith had finished stacked in a neat pile. “Did you write this?” Shiro asked, reaching down to bring the sheets closer.

Keith stormed over to the table and grabbed at the papers, holding them close to his chest and ignoring the surprised look on Shiro’s face. “No, no I-”

“I would recognise your chicken-scratch handwriting anywhere. What is it?” Shiro stepped closer, trying to sneak a peek.

“It’s private,” Keith growled warningly, but Shiro only laughed.

“Oh, what are they? Love letters?” Shiro teased with that infuriating smirk. “Who’s the lucky guy? Do I know them?”

“They’re not love letters-!”

Shiro winks at him, “I could put in a good word-”

“Shiro-!”

“Did you meet someone last night?” Shiro gasped. “Is that where you ran off to so early?”

“No, I didn’t meet anyone!” Keith rolled his eyes, honestly wishing he could do so with such force that his eyes would roll into the back of his head. _Anything_ to keep from seeing that teasing grin on Shiro’s smug face.

“Then where did you go?”

He thinks of Lance, of sharp wine on his tongue and a shaking body in his arms. And he thinks of Lance’s words of encouragement, of his kind eyes. As that panic in his chest refuses to abate under Shiro’s curious eyes, Lance’s words echo in his head:

_Scary is good._

He grips at the papers protectively, not caring that they crinkle beneath his fingers:

_Scary means it matters._

“Keith?”

_It means it’s important._

“You’re not allowed to laugh,” Keith grumbles, his words holding less bite than he would have preferred.

Whatever Shiro was about to say wilts on his tongue as he sees the vulnerable look in Keith’s eyes, how desperately he is avoiding looking at Shiro. Whatever is going on it’s serious, and Shiro slides a chair out from the table to take a seat. He sits quietly and gives Keith his undivided attention, that smirk long gone as he waits for Keith to say what he wants to.

Keith huffs and sits back down, trying to drown out his panic by playing Lance’s words on repeat in his head. This is important, it’s important, it’s importa-

“They’re not love letters,” Keith clarifies, trying and failing to keep an abrasive tone from his voice. He feels like he’s forcing himself to punch out every word, but he’s started this and he wants to _try_ to share, even if he sounds aggressive doing so.

“Okay,” Shiro says slowly and draws out the ‘o’, acting as though he were approaching a feral animal. “ _Not_ love letters – got it.”

“And they’re important.”

“Understood,” Shiro nods. “No making fun of them.”

Keith nibbles at his lip, anguished at what he wants to say next.

“It’s okay Keith,” Shiro tells him. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to-”

“I _do_ want to,” He says firmly, convincing himself as much as Shiro. “I do, I want to. Just give me…” He takes a deep steadying breath, forcing his arms to work and place the stack of papers in the centre of the table between them both.

“I want you to read them,” He tells Shiro with as much conviction as he can muster. It’s scary, it’s terrifying – and it’s true. He pushes the papers towards him, getting them out of his reach and making himself sit back in his chair and cross his arms to make sure he won’t snatch them back. “It’s not finished yet, but I want to show you.”

Shiro’s hand inches forward before he raises his eyes to watch Keith, give him ample time to change his mind and take the papers back. But Keith stubbornly sits in his chair, still as stone, practically glaring at the stack of paper until Shiro takes it into his hand and sits back, flicking through them.

“There’s quite a lot,” He remarks, stunned at the time this must have taken.

“You don’t need to read them,” Keith says hastily. “If you don’t want to-”

“I want to,” Shiro tells him honestly. “Want me to start now?”

“No!” Keith accidentally shouts, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks as he gets his outburst under control. “No, no – I don’t want to be here. And you don’t need to say anything – you can read them and never say a word to me and that would be fine.” Because the only thing worse than Shiro reading his story is having to _watch_ Shiro read, and subsequently hate, reading his story. He couldn’t be here.

He stood and snatched at his supplies, his ink and quill, pages unmarred by his words and spilt ink, avoiding Shiro’s eyes. “I’ll leave you to it,” He grumbles, arms full.

“Okay,” Shiro says, eyes migrating towards the words on the first page.

“Shiro?” Keith asks, dancing a little on his toes.

“Yeah?” He asked, already having read the first line.

“It’s, it’s-” He doesn’t know what he wants to say, doesn’t know if he just wants to stall the series of events he has now put into motion. He nibbles his lip and turns to leave, glancing back over his shoulder to say, “It’s important,” before retreating to hide in his room.

Shiro watched him go, feeling conflicted about the papers in his hands. He was unbelievably curious to read Keith’s work, but wasn’t sure if he should considering the fact that Keith was acting as though someone were holding him at knife point. Did Keith actually want him to read this? Was this some kind of convoluted test, or a prank?

Shiro quickly shook that thought off: Keith wasn’t one to play mind games, or play tricks on people. Whatever lay in the pages in his hands, it was raw and powerful. And a part of Keith, no matter how small, wanted Shiro to experience it. He stood and moved to their threadbare couch and began to read.

*****

The soft kiss against his cheek roused him, a contented rumbling-hum coming from his throat as he pressed back against the warm body in the bed.

“Good morning, mon trésor,” Was whispered into his ear and finally Lance let himself blink awake, turning his head to the side so those warm lips could land against his.

“Good morning,” He told Lotor, his voice rough with sleep.

“How did you sleep?”

“Good – very good,” He said truthfully, thinking back to the disastrous previous night with next to no sleep. Lotor’s expensive bed was certainly a welcome luxury, and the warm body next to his was a comfort. Though, at some points, he couldn’t keep his brain from remembering sharing a bed with her-

“I’m sorry,” Lotor says into his ear. The pair are whispering, almost trying to preserve the quiet of the morning. “For how I acted, yesterday. I was just worried – you know that right?”

Lance nodded, playing over the awful feeling of disappointing Lotor again, the sharp look on Lotor’s face. He rolled over and looked up at his fiancé, raising his hand to cup Lotor’s cheek, rough with the morning’s stubble. “You don’t need to apologise,” He promised, guilty at causing Lotor such stress. “It was a fair reaction – I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“It’s okay,” Lotor tells him, his arms winding around Lance’s shoulders and pulling him into an embrace. “So,” He asked, placing a kiss to the top of Lance’s head, “Do you want to get breakfast? Though I fear it’s closer to lunch now.”

“Is it?” Lance gasped, trying to bolt upright but being held firmly in place by Lotor’s firm arms. He laughed and wriggled, Lotor’s arms only tightening around him. “I need to get to the club!”

“You always need to get to the club,” He whinged, relinquishing his hold all the same.

“Yeah well, we can’t all be laden with cash,” Lance teased, rolling his eyes as Lotor’s eyes followed him around the room as he attempted to collect his things and get dressed. “I’ve got rent to pay, you know!”

“I don’t see why you don’t just move in here,” Lotor huffed. “I could look after you-”

“We’ve been over this,” Lance’s voice was slightly exasperated at what could be the hundredth time discussing this. “I want to move in with my _husband.”_

“Why not ‘soon to be’ husband?”

“They’re not the same thing,” Lance laughed, leaning down to the mirror to check his face was presentable for the outside world.

“Well then, why can’t we just get married already?”

Lance sighed, racking fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame the mop. “You _know_ why – , there’s planning, scheduling, meetings for venues and catering and flowers and- and we haven’t even set a date yet!”

“How about tomorrow?” The look on Lotor’s face was cheeky yet entirely genuine, and the idea caused a momentary panic in Lance’s chest before he chuckled, albeit a bit cruelly.

“I wish,” He said sarcastically. “Do you fancy throwing together a wedding in 24 hours?”

“No, I don’t.” Lotor threw the covers off of him and walked up behind Lance, placing a kiss to his neck and looking at him in the mirror. “But I want to marry you, tomorrow. Who needs the big fancy wedding?”

Lance’s space felt heavily crowded, eyes darting away from the happy couple in the mirror. “Lotor-” He sighed in defeat.

“I know,” Lotor conceded, placing another chaste kiss before letting go and backing away.

“I -I just want it to be perfect,” Lance said, his words following his fiancé as he made his way back into bed.

“I said I know,” Lotor told him. “Don’t worry, we can wait. I’m just – I’m just desperate to be married to you already.”

“Yeah,” Lance said, that uncertain hollowness in his chest yawning wide but ultimately going ignored. “Me too.”

*****

It had been a long couple of days since Keith had crumbled and given Shiro his writing, baring his soul in a filthy manner that just left him feeling terrified and exposed. Keith had been lucky that he had been working long shifts the past few days, starting early in the morning so that by the time he came home Shiro had already left for rehearsals and he could be safe in the knowledge that the flat would be empty for the evening. The first night Shiro had knocked tentatively on his door when he had gotten in from the club, encountering nothing but silence before sighing and going to his own room. Keith didn’t know if Shiro thought he was sleeping or simply didn’t want to talk to him, but at this precise moment in time he didn’t care. He was mortified, horrified with himself to choose such a path of anxiety and stress. All he could do right now was avoid confronting his choice, and frankly he planned to continue on with that decision for as far as it would carry him.

It was a day Keith had been dreading: a day off. He had tried as hard as he could to pick up an extra shift, get some work, but the employment gods were not looking down on him with favour. He hid in his room as he heard Shiro pottering around in the flat, quiet as possible so that Shiro would assume he was out working and not hiding in his room like the spineless jellyfish he was.

When Keith finally dared show his face again Shiro was long gone, having left in the afternoon to make it to rehearsals. Shiro being gone was no accident – Keith had waited at his door until he had heard his flatmate leave, waiting another 30 minutes before venturing out in case Shiro needed to return for something.

He was mortified with himself, unable to keep from replaying the awkward exchange with Shiro and the fact that he had handed over a _very personal piece of work-_

‘ _Breathe’_ he told himself, stopping in the middle of the hallway and doing just that, letting his eyes close. Darkness, he was thinking of only darkness and blackness. He wasn’t thinking about writing. He _certainly_ wasn’t thinking about the look on Shiro’s face as he had started to read-

_‘Stop!’_

This was going nowhere. With an angry sigh he continued on into the kitchen and racked through their cupboard for something to eat, not hungry so much as needing the distraction. But the cupboards were bare: with Shiro’s busy rehearsal schedule and Keith hiding in his room like a child neither had managed to make it to the shops recently. He sighed and slammed the cupboard closed a bit too forcefully, directing his irritation towards the shelves for allowing themselves to be empty.

He slumped down at the table with a half-hearted grumble, trying to work out if he had both the money and the willpower to go to the shops himself and buy what they needed. It was then that he noticed the piece of paper sitting in the middle of the table, folded in half with _‘Keith’_ written on it in Shiro’s handwriting.

He ignored it for a moment, getting up and wandering around the flat, desperately looking for something to do. But his eyes kept wandering back to that piece of paper, stark white against the worn wood, and despite himself he was curious what Shiro had to say. Especially considering he had gone to the effort of writing it instead of breaking Keith’s door down and calling him out for being an idiot. He didn’t want to give in – he was enjoying existing in this realm of not knowing. Here he hadn’t heard Shiro’s criticism and felt his judgement – he didn’t have to feel embarrassed.

Well, _too_ embarrassed at least.

But his fatal flaw was curiosity: he knew it was just a matter of time before he broke down and read the words, so what was the point in wasting his time waiting? He could just quickly skim the words and put the note back as soon as he touched it – Shiro would never need to know that Keith had actually read it. He could at least keep his embarrassment and hurt to himself.

He hated himself as he sat down and snatched the letter, unfolding it without hesitation before common sense could catch up to him.

_You’re being an idiot – you do know you can’t hide from me forever don’t you?_

_I’m tired of not seeing your sour face. So, if you **actually** don’t want to talk about it that’s fine, you can bin this letter and when I come home we will carry on like nothing happened and you can stop hiding in your room._

_But if you want to talk about it – and I think you do – come down to the club during rehearsal hours today. I need to talk to you about something. Just knock at the staff door and someone will let you in._

_S._

The letter made Keith feel sick, nausea sloshing in his belly as though he were a kid being caught out stealing from the pantry. And that nausea didn’t abate as he found himself retreating to his room to dress himself, feeling like he was watching on from the side-lines as his body washed and grabbed clothes from his wardrobe, dressing itself robotically. He hated Shiro, he hated Shiro so much-

Because those words hit exactly as Shiro planned them to and they stuck, rattling around in his head as he readied himself and grabbed his flat keys, leaving Shiro’s letter sitting unfolded on the table.

The walk to the Café de L’Altea was becoming far too familiar for Keith’s liking: how was it that in a few short days he had visited this place more than he had in his entire life combined? Shiro had convinced him to attend his birthday party and now the place seemed to be sucking him, keeping him coming back time and time again. Why was he such a good friend?

He stood at the locked front door with confusion before remembering Shiro’s words to go through the staff entrance. Of course – the club wasn’t open yet.

Walking the alley to the staff door only caused memories to surface: the tight cut of his shirt collar, the smell of cigarette smoke. He felt himself getting embarrassed all over again as he took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles against the door.

Nothing happened. Keith waited a moment before raising his hand and knocking louder, this time earning distant sounds of someone coming to his aid. As he waited for the door to open he got nervous all over again and considered bolting down the alley as fast as he could.

Too late – the door opened and Keith was face to face with Lance’s easy smile, converting through confusion at seeing Keith there before settling on delighted surprise. “Red!” He cried, grinning wide, “Can’t keep yourself away, hmm?”

Keith rolled his eyes, supressing a smile, “I’m here to see Shiro.” With each interaction Keith felt a little more at ease in Lance’s presence, especially after spending several drunken hours together the other morning. Before…

“Aw,” Lance faux pouted, leaning against the door and not granting Keith entrance yet. “And here I was thinking I was being graced by a handsome gentleman caller. Alas, I suppose my wait shall continue.”

“I’m sure Lotor comes by often enough,” Keith says.

“Not enough.” Lance looks around suspiciously before whispering comically loudly, “I am _very_ needy.”

Keith laughs, finally giving in and letting that smile surface. “Why am I not surprised?”

“For shame!” Lance gasps, the back of his hand brought to his forehead. “You wound me sir!”

Lance was so…different, from when Keith had last seen him. It was mad to him that those two creatures were different sides of the same coin: flirtations and jokes mixed in with a deep darkness that Keith couldn’t even begin to comprehend. It was an odd juxtaposition to him, especially as he had only seen one or the other side and never both together. To him, it seemed that Lance was simply two different people.

“Are you going to let me in?” Keith asked with a raised brow shifting on his feet. “I have better things to be doing, you know?”

“How about I let you in, _if_ …” Lance began to suggest, tapping at his chin before grinning devilishly and leaning forward a little, “you give me a kiss?”

“A kiss?” Keith deadpanned, unsure if Lance was being serious or this was a joke.

Lance nodded, a cheeky grin on his face, eyes almost _daring_ Keith to do it.

He blinked in surprise as a hand took his and raised it up, Keith planting a chaste kiss to the back of it For a moment the pair of them stood there, Lance’s eyes wide from the briefest of interactions between Keith’s lips and his skin. Keith’s _lips_ and _his skin-!_

He had only been kidding, but now the moment felt so charged he didn’t have the heart to tell Keith it had only been a joke. What if he embarrassed him and chased him away?

“So,” Keith said slowly, realising he still held Lance’s hand and quickly dropping it, “May I come in?”

Lance only giggled, seemingly flustered as he hastily forced himself to stop and clear his throat. “You paid the toll,” He simply announced, stepping back and gesturing to the hallway behind him, “Therefore you have earned the right to enter, Monsieur Kogane.”

“ _Must_ you always over dramatize everything?” Keith asked with humour, finally stepping into the club and closing the door after him.

“Without drama, life is boring,” Lance announced, casting a look back over his shoulder. “Do you want to live a boring life, Keith?”

“I feel like there’s some appeal in a simple life,” He countered.

“Perhaps,” Lance shrugged, leading Keith in a different direction from when he last came here. He could hear distant music drifting in from the direction of the main hall, Allura’s stern voice carrying as she corrected something in the number. “But it certainly wouldn’t be as fun.”

Lance leads him into what can only be the dressing area and Keith has to stop to give himself a chance to take the room in. People are running around in what appeared to be absolute chaos, crowding mirrors to fix make-up or darting backwards and forwards in various stages of undress, proclaiming their opinions of the new costumes to anyone who would listen. There was laughter and shouting, a din of general chatter and seemingly a fine layer of glitter dusting every surface.

Lance looked back to see Keith’s stunned face, chuckling and grabbing at his wrist to lead him into the fray. They darted as best they could around the bustling bodies, Lance leading him to the safety that was Lance’s dressing station. He pushed Keith down into his seat to keep him from the crowd, looking around as though with a fresh pair of eyes. “Don’t worry,” He said, noting Keith’s stressed expression, “It seemed like anarchy to me too when I first came.”

“Is it always like this?” Keith gasped, unable to keep focus on one person for too long before something else had taken his attention.

“Not really - just during rehearsals. And the shows. And when everyone is tidying up…” Lance trailed off, tapping his chin. “Actually, it might always be like this…”

“How do you ever get anything done?”

“It may be chaos,” Lance grinned, “But at least it’s organised chaos.” Lance stood atop his tip toes, trying to peer through the crowd. “Wait here and I’ll fetch Shiro for you,” He says, “I doubt you would survive venturing amidst the crowd once more.”

Before Keith can argue Lance has cast him a wink and disappeared amongst the throng. He felt entirely self-conscious, hairs on the back of his neck raising as though every pair of eyes in the crowd were watching him. He nibbled at his lip and twiddled his thumbs, looking over the items on Lance’s table to distract him.

There was a lot of make-up: powders, pastes, paints, creams and who knew what else amidst the collection of pots and tubes. A pressed rose was gently tucked into the corner of his mirror, and someone had drawn a smiley face with red lipstick up the top.

“Want me to give you a makeover? You’ll be the prettiest belle at the ball.”

Keith glares over his shoulder, not pleased to find both Shiro and Lance snickering. Keith stood and leaned his back against the dressing table, crossing his arms and donning his patented ‘brooding’ expression. “Tell me again why I had to come all the way down here to talk to you?”

“Well if I remember,” Shiro pondered sarcastically, “It had something to do with you being a little bitch-”

“Okay okay okay!” Keith abated, getting the point and really not wanting to know where Shiro was going to take this.

Shiro grinned in victory. Any other day Keith would have made fun of him: he was in tight black trousers and a puffy white shirt, unbuttoned almost all the way down to his navel. He looked like he was going for a ‘sexy pirate’ look, his hair tousled as though by the winds of the sea. Unfortunately, at this present moment in time, Shiro had dirt on him and he dare not incur his wrath.

“Want to watch some of the rehearsals?” Shiro offered. “Surprisingly it’s a lot quieter out there than back here.”

“Sure,” Keith nodded, those nervous butterflies returning all over again as he stood straight. He nodded towards Lance, “See you later. Thanks for the help.”

Lance felt a slight blush raise to his cheeks as he remembered the all-too-brief moment Keith’s lips touched his hand. He waved him off, shooing the pair from his table and plopping himself into his chair. “Get going already – I need to get ready.”

Shiro laughed, “The show isn’t for hours Lance – you haven’t even had your rehearsal yet.”

“As if I’m going onto that stage with my face as it is,” Lance said with a roll of his eyes. “I look like I just rolled out of the grave!”

Keith wanted to say that he thought Lance looked perfectly fine – he didn’t need the make-up and glitter to look beautiful, he already was-

Keith stopped himself from that train of thought, feeling his cheeks turn pink and being saved from saying something foolish by Shiro taking his arm and tugging him into the crowd of performers. He looked around, trying to get their bearing, catching a glimpse of two people walking over and striking up a conversation with Lance. Keith recognised them, struggling to place their faces before remembering he had seem them outside Lance’s building the other morning when he had left.

Shiro lead him blissfully from the busy dressing room out into the performance area and taking a seat towards the back of the room close to the deserted bar. It was weird seeing this massive hall empty, without club goers or party guests. Aside from them, the only people in the hall were on the stage, someone standing on a tall ladder adjusting lights. Hunk was at his piano, tuning the keys so the only sound was each key being repeatedly struck as he tuned it to perfection.

“Okay,” Shiro says, tapping his hands on the table. “Before we talk, I need you to promise you won’t get mad or broody or any sort of typical ‘Keith’ reaction until I’m done.”

“Why am I going to get mad-?”

“You’re not going to,” Shiro reiterates, “Because you’re going to hold off until I’m finished. Can you do that?”

“I don’t know…” Those butterflies felt more like rocks now, shifting and collapsing with each panicked breath.

“Keith, you gave me your writing for a reason. You came down here for a reason – all I’m going to ask you for is to relay your initial reaction until I’m done.”

“Ooo-kay,” Keith said slowly, unsure he was happy agreeing to such terms. But he had come this far, why not push it to its ultimately embarrassing conclusion?

“Okay.” Shiro took a deep breath, then told him quickly and calmly, “So…Coran may or may not have read it too-”

“WHAT!?”

“You said you would wait until the end to react,” Shiro reminded, raising his hands in a protective manner as Keith shot up out of his seat. The pair of them noticed the multiple sets of eyes watching them from the stage and, grinding his teeth, Keith reluctantly sat back down.

“Explain,” Was the only word he could get out of his mouth without screaming.

“I was reading it, and it’s really good Keith – it’s _really_ good, and I wanted to read some of it again. So I brought it to work during rehearsals.” Shiro’s hands were moving as he explained, as though the scenes he told were pieces that he were physically manoeuvring in the open air. “Then Allura and I were up, so I sat it on my dresser and went to rehearse. Finally managed to nail that difficult lift we’ve been struggling with-”

“Shiro,” Keith growled in warning.

“And then I came back,” Shiro said, his carefree act falling to show just how guilty he felt. “And Coran was reading it. I’m so sorry Keith – we’re all very open here and there’s a universal understanding that things left out in the open are fair game. He thought I had written it, or Adam…” Shiro steered himself back, threatening to veer off course again. “He asked if he could read the rest of it – he thought it was great. And he said he’s been looking for material to convert into a show-”

“ _What-?”_

“And he thinks this is it.” Shiro continued through his outburst. “He wants to read the rest Keith, and he wants to be able to use it.”

“W-what did you say to him?” Keith felt almost breathless, the ground threatening to open up beneath him and swallow him down into the murky depths.

“I explained who it belonged to,” Shiro said, shifting slightly. “He apologised for reading it too – and I am _so_ sorry that I left it lying around where others could see it, Keith. I know it’s extremely private and I’m sorry I didn’t look after it.” 

“It’s…” Keith thought for a moment, sifting through the storm of emotions crashing in his chest right now, trying to work out how he actually wanted to react. “It’s okay,” He sighed. “You didn’t mean to.”

“Still though-”

“I said it was okay, Shiro,” Keith pressed, “And you of all people know that I mean what I say.” Through everything, the pair had held onto one basic principle: they won’t play games with each other the way that the world did. They said what they thought, and they were up front with each other. “It’s done now. I may never be able to show my face here again, but other than that we’re good.”

“If you’re sure…” Shiro said uncertainly, his voice trailing off as Keith gave him a hard look. “Okay, you’re sure. So, what do you want to do?”

“Do?”

“About Coran’s offer – can I give him what you’ve got so far? He loved the beginning.”

“Wait.” Keith raised his hands, trying to work out what Shiro was thinking. “You think I want some random man I barely know to read it? Shiro, I barely let _you_ read it!”

“I know, I know!” Shiro promised. “But Coran has an eye for talent, and your skill has drawn him in. He’d just like the chance to finish it.”

“ _I_ haven’t even finished it yet!”

“You don’t know the ending?” Shiro asked, raising a brow. “But that was my next question – what happens to the painter and the scarfweaver?”

“I don’t know,” Keith said, resting his chin in his hand. “I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“You have no idea how you would like it to end?”

“I have an idea…” He said. “But that’s all it is: my ideal way of rounding it off.”

“Well, why not write that?”

“Because it’s not realistic, Shiro,” Keith sighed. “I don’t want to write some world stopping romance that doesn’t seem like it could actually happen. It’s disengaging. I want something…real.” It sounded stupid: of course his fictional piece couldn’t actually be real, but it was the best way he could word it.

“Happy endings can be real, you know,” Shiro said. “I mean, look at us. Considering where we started, I’d say it’s ended pretty happily.”

“So our story ends here?” Keith asked. “There will be no more changes, no ups and downs and challenges? Sounds kind of boring, doesn’t it?”

_It certainly wouldn’t be as fun._

“Going back to our original point,” Shiro said, rerouting the pair once again. “I take it it’s a no?”

“It’s a hell no, Shiro,” Keith said. He couldn’t handle this – it was bad enough Coran had seen only a _couple_ of pages, as if he was going to let him read the whole thing. Over his dead body.

“And you won’t reconsider?”

“No, Shiro,” He said firmly. It was enough of a mistake that he had shown Shiro, and it was already getting out of hand. How many people would Coran show – hell, what if Coran actually made a show? Half of Paris could bear witness to his creation to judge and ridicule. He would be a laughing stock, never able to show his face again-

“Okay, he won’t read it,” Shiro promised. “We can go back to the dressing room and I can give it back now if you would like?”

“I think that would be best,” Keith nodded, ignoring Shiro’s intense gaze.

“Okay.” Shiro almost made to stand, but decided to remain in his seat. His dark eyes were earnest as he looked at Keith and told him with absolute honesty, “It was really great, Keith.”

“Thanks…” He blushed, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Come on-”

Shiro’s head whipped up towards the stage, catching movement there. “Oh – Lance is early.”

Lance was on the stage, the rest of the musicians having already convened beforehand to tune. He was talking to them animatedly, clearly wound up about something as he gave directions in an almost-frantic manner. He snatched the microphone into his hand, a stormy look on his face as he gestured for the double bass to start playing already.

*****

A light dusting of blusher powder and Lance was already looking a bit more alive. It seemed that the dark bags under his eyes were now a permanent feature ever since he had seen Nyma the other night, his mouth seeming to settle into a frown of its own accord. He put his make-up brush down and ran his fingers over the bags, as though searching for a physical way to smooth them out.

“Been losing sleep?”

His eyes flick up in the mirror, taking note of Nadia and James standing at his back. The pair were mainly backing dancers, working alternating shifts on the bar every other night when they weren’t included in acts. He smiled in welcome, letting his hands fall from his face. He hadn’t had the chance to speak to them recently, his last memory of the pair those judging eyes on the dancefloor… “A little,” He told them with a light-hearted smirk on his lips. “Don’t tell him I said this,” He said in mock whisper, “but Lotor is a snorer.”

“Are you sure that’s it?” Nadia asked, crossing her arms. The pair were looking at him like he had done something wrong, and instantly he felt guilt in his chest, breath stuttering with anxiety. He panicked under that gaze, trying to think of what he could have done to upset the pair.

“I-I don’t know what you mean,” He said slowly, unsure of what was exactly going on.

“You like Keith,” James noted, leaning against Lance’s table.

“Well, yes?” He was sure from their reaction he had said something wrong, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure what. “You don’t?”

“This isn’t about us, Lance,” James told him. “What you’re doing isn’t fair.”

“Excuse me?” He raised an eyebrow, fingers gripping the edge of the table to keep him grounded.

“Look,” Nadia preached, “As someone who has been cheated on-”

“What do you _mean?”_ He cried, noting the heads turning their way and lowering his voice. “Who’s cheating on whom?”

“Don’t play dumb Lance,” Nadia rolled her eyes. “I know you like to pretend you’re stupid, but be serious with us here. We’re only trying to help.”

“I _seriously_ don’t understand what you two are talking about,” He promised, completely at a loss.

“ _Keith_ , Lance,” James said as though it cleared up everything.

“What about-?”

“We _know_ Lance! We saw him,” Nadia told him, getting exasperated. “We saw him, leaving your apartment after the night out. We know he went back to your place, and it doesn’t take a detective to work out what the pair of you were up to.”

“You can’t be doing this,” James told him. “It’s not fair.”

Lance was shell-shocked, looking up at the pair with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. He felt pinned, trapped in his chair beneath these two towering over him. “You’ve got it all wrong-”

“Flaunting it in the club like that,” Nadia said, shaking her head. “People are already talking about that – you’re lucky we haven’t told anyone what we saw.”

“People are talking?” He asked. Oh god, he could feel the anxiety eating up the space in his chest, his breaths becoming shallower and shallower.

“And you don’t want them to know, Lance,” James said. “You need to end it, before your _fiancé_ finds out.”

“I- I haven’t done anything?” Lance said, knowing he didn’t sound wholly convincing but wrapped up in his confusion at the situation he found himself in.

“Don’t lie Lance,” said James. “Just accept you’ve been caught out, and fix this-”

“No, you’re not listening,” Lance said, feeling himself starting to return, finally managing to process their words. “Nothing happened – Keith is just a friend.”

“A _friend_ , huh?” James asked, raising a sceptical brow. “If he was ‘just a friend’ people wouldn’t be suspicious of the two of you,” He said, casting dramatic air-quotes with his fingers.

Nadia cut in before Lance could, “Look, we’re just trying to help-”

“Help? _Help!”_ He cried, unable to keep his temper to himself any longer. He stood from his chair, the move making them step back in fright as the wooden legs scraped against the floor, his face dark. “ _Helping me_ is spreading vicious rumours about me to whoever will listen?”

“We didn’t-”

“Like hell you didn’t,” Lance said. “Maybe you should vet your information before passing messages along the grapevine.” He felt furious, a raging anxious fire in his gut. He couldn’t control what was being said about him _right now._ He was being painted as a bad person without judge nor jury, no one thinking to offer a defence. He was _angry:_ these things were dangerous, had possibility to cause damage to his life. And all because people couldn’t resist the rumour mill.

He couldn’t take another moment of their judging eyes, nor their high-and-mighty attitude. He hadn’t even finished his make-up: he just couldn’t be there a moment longer. He wanted to scream: he wanted to shriek and yell in the faces of these people who only cared for their new taste of gossip.

He didn’t notice where he was going until he stepped onto the stage, interrupting the band as they tuned.

“Lance?” Hunk asked, head popping up. “We’re not quite ready for you yet-”

“Doesn’t matter,” He said curtly, pointing at the double bassist. “Sven, start with that walking bassline you’ve been riffing with. We’re going to have some fun with improv.”

“We need to run the set list-” Sven started.

“Later,” Lance cut him off. “Right now we need to jam. I want bass and snapping fingers before I begin. You guys can then read off me and come in when you feel is best.”

“I’m not sure we have time, Lance-” Hunk tried to tell him gently, but his voice died as Lance looked at him with a stormy look that told him all he needed. “You heard him guys,” He said sternly, reiterating Lance’s words to the band. “Sven, walking bass – let’s keep things simple and stick to G major.”

“Hunk-” The trumpeter, Matt, tried to object.

“You’ve been wanting a chance to let loose, Matt,” Hunk said, popping the joints of his fingers. “Take it as an opportunity to show off some of your skills.”

That piqued Matt’s interest, nodding and checking his valves to make sure they weren’t sticking. “Let’s see if you guys can keep up,” He smirked.

Lance grinned, something carnal and dangerous, like a madman standing on the edge of a cliff and savouring the thrill before jumping. He waved at Sven impatiently, wanting to get on with it already. “Don’t forget that _I’m_ the star here, Matt.”

Matt rolled his eyes as Sven began his baseline, the rest of the band following Lance’s initial instructions and snapping their fingers in time. Lance turned and swallowed the room in his gaze. It may be empty, but right now every chair and table, every fixture, every fibre of the carpet was his to command. This building was going to hear what he had to say, and it was going to take it seriously.

_‘I'm gonna fight 'em all  
A seven nation army couldn't hold me back  
They're gonna rip it off  
Taking their time right behind my back.’_

Lance let his mouth quirk up in the corner as Hunk provided soft notes below his words, getting a feel of what Lance was going for. Lance felt a feeling of freedom in his chest as his mind went blank and he let his mouth take control. He had no line of thought, only the feeling of rage and suspicion and anxiety. He couldn’t believe that these people who were supposed to be his friends were whispering behind their hands in the shadows, casting their own biased judgement.

_‘And the message coming from my eyes_ _  
Says **leave it alone**.’_

God, he loved his band. Over the years they had melted together under the music, bouncing off of one another and drawing energy, letting the notes speak for themselves.

He didn’t care who was listening, who heard him as he practically screamed into the mic, letting the music take him so he didn’t need to be trapped inside his body anymore, stuck with these anxious thoughts that were trying to tell him this was his fault-

No, he wanted them to hear. Everyone who had decided his life was a show they could spy on, a story they had a right to dictate and judge. He wasn’t to be a source of entertainment for them – never again – and he would damn well make sure that they knew that. Not one person under this roof would escape his words of warning as he sang, the room a blur of lights as he fully gave himself up. This fury, this fire, he refused to contain it, to bottle it up and move on. How dare they meddle, how dare they lie-

He pushed and he pushed and the band followed, feeding off of his energy and responding in kind, supporting him in a melody as he let loose. He refused to listen to their words: this wasn’t his fault and he had done nothing wrong. They came after him and his character, and he would be remiss not to point out the idiotic fault in their actions.

_‘All the words are gonna bleed from me_ _  
And I will sing no more  
And the stains coming from my blood  
Tell me go back home.’_

He breathed heavily as the music faded out, pleased he had delivered his message but still trapped with the dark feelings in his chest. He felt light-headed, almost sick beneath the lights as his energy dropped off, wanting to drop the mic on the floor but instead sliding it back into its stand.

“Woo!” Hunk hollered, giving the band a solo round of applause. “That was great-”

Lance’s eyes darted up as he hear more clapping join in, eyes widening as he spied Shiro and Keith sitting in the back of the room. His cheeks grew red and he waved a small greeting to them, turning his back on them quickly. He couldn’t give the spying eyes any more ammunition, making sure not to cast another look out to the seating area.

“Lance?” Hunk asked. “Since we’re here, want to run through the set list?”

“I’m- I’m not feeling great,” He admitted, feeling as though the blood had drained from his face. He placed a hand against Hunk’s piano to steady himself, wiping a thin layer of sweat from his brow. “I think I need to lie down.”

“You look pale,” Hunk pointed out, standing and placing a hand around his friend’s shoulder. “Have you eaten today?”

“Erm…”

“That hesitation is far too long for my liking. Come on.” He lead Lance off stage, shouting over his shoulders, “Take a 20, guys!”

*****

Keith felt blown away, blinking dumbly in the aftermath of Lance’s performance. The quiet of the hall almost felt deeper now, heavier after the intense outburst.

“Woah,” Shiro said, still not having looked away from the stage, whistling a note low and long. “That was some powerful stuff – I hope he wrote that one down.”

“Huh?” Keith asked, only half catching Shiro’s words. He shook his head slightly, bringing himself back to the table instead of wherever Lance’s words had taken him.

“The song Lance just sang, I hope he has it written down and it wasn’t all off the cuff.” Shiro rubbed at his chin, grimacing as he found several hairs he had missed when shaving this morning. “Though that was _raw_ – something tells me it won’t be getting performed again.”

“What do you mean?” Keith asked, feeling like Shiro was speaking in riddles. He felt surrounded by a fog that was closing in, conjured by Lance’s singing. He was being pressed in on all sides by raw emotion, feeling it affecting him, making him feel what Lance was feeling: it was like magic.

“Lance.” Shiro said, not sure where Keith was lost. “I hope he didn’t improv all of that. It’d be a shame if they can’t recreate it.”

Then, it clicks. “Lance writes the songs?” Keith asks, finally breaking the spell under Shiro as his roommate turns to look at him.

“Well, the lyrics,” Shiro explains. “He’s mainly lyrics and the emotional side, then Hunk tends to handle melodies and instrumentation. They make a pretty strong team.”

“Wow,” Keith says, seriously impressed that Lance had just sang a whole song without preparation. Just diving into the deep end and having the self-confidence that it would all work out. “Does he perform them often – his work, I mean.”

“Every time he gets on stage,” Shiro says. “He won’t let anything other than his own word represent him – says he can’t connect to others’ work like he can to his own. Makes sense: he’s selling the crowd a song, he needs to believe in what he’s peddling.”

Keith couldn’t quite fathom the guts it would take to open yourself up and present your core, to put your vulnerability out into the world to be enjoyed by others. It was amazing, the raw energy Lance always seemed to have when he performed, and now Keith knew how he did it. Because these words he gave to a crowd were his own: he had walked every step of the journey that had lead him here, letting him stand on a stage and show the word the trophies and scars he had gained along the way.

Keith knew it was a stupid decision for him to make, but as he sat at the table in the empty Café de L’Altea he found himself completely and utterly under Lance’s spell, his own core wrapped up in the twisting tendrils of Lance’s fury and vulnerability, simultaneously making him weaker and stronger.

He looked at Shiro with conviction, his words surprising the pair of them but spoken with a level of surety that Keith had previously never experienced before: “I want you to give my work to Coran.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the chapters go on, things only seem to get murkier and murkier...


	6. Blank Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A world of paint and silk collides with a city of music and ink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday, and happy May!!  
> Hope we're all doing okay this week. 
> 
> This week's chapter features Postmodern Jukebox's fabulous version of 'Blank Space', found [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mx_0LK1DfrE)  
> As always, this is a work of complete fiction and I have no ownership of the featured musical content.

Beyond our land lies one of desert and sand; of parched tongues and eyes long too dry for tears. Where friend would stab you as fast as foe, and it was every man for himself.

Here is where the lowly painter Quamar existed, content with a meagre living so long as he could buy paint and canvas. He let himself grow thin, his body weary, as his paintings gained life with strokes of paint before him. He wanted no more, for what else could there be beyond the colour of his paints?

Until one day when the scarfweaver came to town, and for the first time in his life the painter saw flashes of colour beyond what he himself had created. With each movement the scarves at his hip danced, fluttered in the wind, a rainbow of woven silk as he talked with the gathering crowd and peddled his wares.

The painter felt weak as he approached and bought a scarf with the few coins in his possession, unable to bear returning home without this ray of colour. The scarfweaver smiled and picked out a scarf for him, one of vibrant reds and soaring yellows, a fire so convincingly encapsulated by material he was certain he would burn his fingers with the slightest touch. But the silk was smooth, cool against his skin in the heat of the midday sun, and the scarfweaver’s hand against his was firm and grounding. With that, the painter returned home, content to hang his new purchase and return to his work once more.

But he could not.

He found his paintings seemed to lack the energy they once held, leeching the life and soul he had tried to give them. The colours no longer grabbed him, seeming dull and mute against the thrumming vibrancy of the scarf. The scarf was both an inspiration and a torment, allowing him visions of beautiful work with no way to attain it.

He found himself returning to that market stall of colour day after day, watching on with interest as the scarfweaver drew in customers as he tried to understand why the fabrics taunted him so, why they made him see how empty his paintings were. One day he realised it wasn’t the scarf that pulled the life from his paintings: it was that smile. A smile so bright his life dulled in comparison to its brilliance. Because these scenes he painted upon canvas, pulled from his mind, these were not real. They were flashes of a life unlived, and that smile was a hint at something more that he was yet to experience.

He hadn’t painted in weeks, transfixed as he came to the market every day and watched the stall, the brightness drawing him in over and over again. His canvas and paints came with him but he was frozen, his brush hovering an inch above the canvas until the paint dried upon the bristles. It was on one of these days his suspicions were raised as a customer approached the stall, a customer clad in rags with not even shoes upon their feet. The scarfweaver did not carry the same suspicions, greeting the person kindly with open arms as he would do with anyone else. But as the customer kept the scarfweaver’s attention preoccupied, his accomplice approached the stall, snatching armfuls of silk and running from the scene. The scarfweaver turned, crying out, but was too slow as the pair of thieves sprinted from the marketplace.

Without knowing what possessed him the painter stood from his spot and ran to intercept them, cutting off the one with the silk and demanding he give up. For his trouble, the painter was struck in the face with a silk-clad fist and he promptly collapsed into the sand.

When he came to he was under shade, the sun shielded from blinding him and scorching his skin. He blinked, his head pounding, as the most beautiful face he had ever seen came into view. The scarfweaver’s face split into a relieved smile as the painter tried to sit up, handing him a gourd of water and giving his name – Shams. Despite not succeeding in stopping the thieves the scarfweaver was grateful for the help, feeling guilty that the painter had been harmed.

From then on when the painter came to the square he set up beside the scarfweaver, the pair talking as the sun rose to its peak and began to fall. He painted and they laughed and smiled, enjoying one another’s company. They didn’t think beyond this companionship with one another, never putting into words this connection that they both felt deep in their chests. These were simpler days, when life hadn’t caught up to them yet.

But catch up it did.

The painter stopped bringing his canvas and paint to the square, unable to put life into his paintings against the vibrancy of the silk flapping in the wind. His thin frame grew thinner as each painted attempt was scrapped, the colour a cheap imitation of what he wished to immortalise. He became obsessed with capturing his vision, but nothing could come close. He became withdrawn from the scarfweaver, spending much of his time lost in thought, some days passing so completely he didn’t even make it to the market. The scarfweaver watched on as Quamar drifted further and further away from him, concerned but unable to help.

One day, the painter came home to find a regally-clad man standing outside his door. He was the Prince, the stranger explained, and he had heard tale of a great painter in this area. He wished to purchase whatever work he could, and in the blink of an eye Quamar held more money in his hands than he ever had before. His house was dark as the canvases were collected, the only remaining brightness from the silken flame still hung up in pride of place.

When all was said and done – when he had managed to do just what he wished – it seemed silly to stand in a dark house all alone with but a scarf for company.

He sprinted to the square, finally prepared to tell Shams how he felt, the money in his hands feeling as useful as sand. But as he entered the square something was missing: the stall of vibrance and life, of silks drifting in the wind, that smile that rivalled the light of the sun itself – it was all gone. It was as though the scarfweaver had been a dream all along, a figment of the painter’s imagination, and for a moment he was lost.

For the scarfweaver drew the eyes of many to enter the square, his scarves seeming to entrance and draw those lucky enough to bear witness in closer. And it was here the Prince had first laid eyes on Shams, and where he decided that he would marry him and make him his.

The scarfweaver was flattered, of course. But he could not accept – he knew his heart belonged to another, was wrapped up in the smell of paint and the scratch of brush on canvas. He denied the Prince’s offer.

So the Prince came back the next day. And the next. And the next, each day bringing a gift for the scarfweaver and offering his hand in marriage. And the scarfweaver found his hesitation before declining growing with each offer as the painter became obsessed with perfecting his work.

Until one day when the Prince arrived to make his offer but was beaten to the punch. The scarfweaver agreed to accept his hand in marriage, if he would help the poor painter and buy some of his work. The Prince countered with a promise that he would buy all of them, and with that the scarfweaver was engaged. The stall was packed up, the silks hidden away and the scarfweaver disappearing as if he had never been there at all.

The painter couldn’t bear the loss: with the paintings gone his home was empty, at a loss from the imitation world which had filled its walls for years. Everything was dull, the light in his life having left him without even a goodbye.

But as the painter’s mood sank, the city’s spirits rose as the announcement of the Prince’s upcoming marriage swept the streets, talk of feasts and celebrations that would carry on well into the night.

The palace arranged a parade in celebration, the streets filled with exotic animals and dancers, lively bands and flashes of magic. The painter watched on from his spot in the square, now having more than enough money to buy his supplies but no desire to do so. So he sat, leaning against a wall, as he listened to screams and cheers from the crowd.

The star of the show was the elephant carrying the royal couple, waving to the crowds. The scarfweaver was clad in a spotless white, stripped of colour in order to look presentable. As Shams waved a deep sorrow settled in his chest, recognising the square he had frequented with his wares, and thinking of a certain painter he had known from those days.

The crowd erupted as the elephant approached, stirring the painter to look up, his mouth dropping open as he recognised the scarfweaver settled next to the Prince, waving with a face like stone. Before he knew he had moved he was pushing through the crowd, shoving at unsuspecting people and leaving shouts in his wake as he pushed closer. He couldn’t believe it: he had found Shams again, he had another chance!

He pushed past the edge of the crowd and stumbled into the middle of the procession path, eyes cast upwards to meet those of the scarfweaver that he knew so well. He opened his mouth, feeling as though they were the only two people in the world, and…

And…

And….

******

“And?” Someone asked impatiently, echoing the consensus of the room.

“And,” Coran shrugs, shuffling the papers, “That’s it, so far. That’s all that has been written.”

“Are you kidding me!” Pidge shouted. “You are joking right? That’s the pivotal moment, how can it just stop!?”

“Well, it does,” Coran says, settling the papers at his side. He sits on the edge of the stage with his legs dangling over the edge, the club long since having closed for the evening. Coran had suggested a reading to any performers who were interested, his excitement shining through as he hinted that he was planning a show. “So, what do we think?”

“Of a story with no end?” Pidge scoffed, yelping as Matt swatted her about the back of the head.

Coran sighed with exasperation, “Do we think it’s something we can work with? I don’t want to force anyone into a show they wouldn’t feel passionate doing.”

“I thought it was great,” Shiro piped up, seemingly invested in seeing what other people thought as he looked around for other opinions to join his.

“I thought it was lovely, in a sorrowful kind of way,” Lance says, feeling self-conscious and sappy as many eyes turned to stare at him. “Bittersweet,” He hums, trying to place the strange feeling in his chest the story had given him.

“Would you want music in this show?” Hunk asks, his eyes lighting up at the possibility. “I would love to work on it.”

“Yes,” Coran confirms. “We don’t just want to put on a play here: we’re about theatrics and sound, so we would have to put our spin on it.”

“I think it’s a great idea.” Everyone turned in surprise as Lotor spoke up, many expecting him to sit quietly at Lance’s side until the meeting was over. But he raised his voice and gave his opinion with an air of command that ensured that no one forgot he was the main benefactor of the club. “We’d draw crowds if we market it right, really show off the talent of the performers,” He grins, throwing an arm around Lance’s shoulder and placing a kiss to his cheek, chuckling as Lance’s cheeks turned red.

Someone else asked a question and thankfully the focus shifted from them, Lance no longer listening as Lotor whispered in his ear, “This is your chance to make a name for yourself. You can finally get out of here, become a star.”

Lance patted his hand and tried to smile, “Don’t get ahead of yourself Lotor, it’s extremely early days. We don’t even know the ending yet!”

“Well, we could write the end,” He drawls in his ear. “We could make a gorgeous stage for the wedding.”

“You think the scarfweaver and the painter will get married?” Lance asks him.

“No, no,” Lotor pulls away a little, a confused look on his face. “The _Prince_ and the scarfweaver.”

“You’re joking-”

“Why would the scarfweaver choose someone who isn’t good enough? Who couldn’t give them what they needed?”

Lance rolled his eyes, “For love, Lotor. That’s how it always goes in these stories.”

“And why can’t the scarfweaver be in love with the Prince?” He quirks a brow, enjoying teasing his fiancé.

“Because that’s not how it works,” Lance tells him. His hands move faster as he talks, trying to explain his thoughts. “The Prince gives him everything he _wants,_ not everything he needs.”

“I’m just saying,” Lotor relinquishes the point, holding his hands up in defence, “The scarfweaver made a deal – what message will it send if he goes back on his word?”

Lance feels the light-hearted banter change as irritation builds in his chest. “It’s not a satisfying end, Lotor!”

Something had changed, Lotor removing his arm and the pair frowning at one another. People were casting suspicious glances at their hushed tones, their heated discussion hidden from no one. “Why not?” He asked. “The Prince would clearly do anything for the scarfweaver.”

“Eurgh – you clearly don’t understand.” Lance crossed his arms and made a show of focusing on Coran’s words, ignoring the strange look Lotor was giving him. It almost looked like suspicion…

“Who’s the writer?” Lance asked, wanting to distract himself.

Coran’s face blanched slightly, shooting a hasty look at Shiro that Lance barely caught. “Oh – well, the writer doesn’t want to come forward just yet.”

“Is it someone here?” Lance says excitedly, looking around for a suspect. “Come on Coran – no secrets from family!”

“Well, my lips remain sealed,” Coran tells him firmly, turning to answer another question and leaving Lance unanswered.

The meeting doesn’t carry on much longer after that, the performers seemingly invested in the story and telling Coran they would love to take part in a big show – it had been a while since they had hosted one. Satisfied with the outcome, Coran dismissed them all for the evening, thanking them for their presence.

As the group began to disperse Lance leapt from his seat and cornered Coran against the stage, a mischievous look on his face.

Coran sighed, keeping the papers firmly in hand and out of reach of Lance’s grabbing fingers. “I’m not going to tell you who the author is Lance.”

“Aw, come on,” He whined, fluttering his eyelashes. “I can keep a secret.”

“And so can I,” Coran told him with a firm look, not succumbing to Lance’s attempts. “Now run along – you might get to go home but I’ve still got a list of things to do before I get to do the same.”

Lance tried his luck with the puppy-dog eyes, sticking his lower lip out in an absurd pout, but Coran still waved him on. He stuck his tongue out at him but did as he was told, walking back to Lotor who was holding his coat out to him.

“I’m sorry-” Lotor said.

“It’s okay,” Lance told him, taking the coat from him and slipping his arms into the sleeves. “I was overreacting – it’s been a long night.”

“You drew quite a crowd,” Lotor smiled, pulling him into a loose embrace, his hands clasped at the small of Lance’s back, “Mon trésor.”

Lance leaned forwards for a kiss, a breath away from Lotor’s lips before he was distracted by a confused voice saying, “Am I early?” His head turned, leaving Lotor’s mouth pouted, as he spied Keith standing sheepishly and looking between Coran and Lance.

“Not at all, Keith,” Coran told him, waving him forwards. “Lance and Lotor were just _leaving_ ,” He assured him, casting Lance a hard glance.

And then it clicked-

“Keith!” Lance cried, running forwards and leaving Lotor in his wake. He snatched at Keith’s hands, holding them up between them both, “Keith, it’s you, isn’t it? It’s you?!”

“It’s…me?” Keith confirmed, not sure who else it could be.

“No, no,” Lance said with excitement, ignoring how Shiro hid his face behind his hand and Coran looked on apologetically. “It’s you – you’re the author, right?”

Keith’s face fell in pale shock, staring at Coran with wide eyes, “You _told them?”_

“I just told the story,” Coran promised, “Like we agreed. I’m sorry – Lance is too nosey for his own good.”

“Ah Keith, it’s amazing!” Lance squealed, drowning out Coran’s apologies and shaking their clasped hands in his excitement. “It’s so amazing, Keith! Why didn’t you tell me your writing was like _that?”_

Keith was clearly uncomfortable, shirking back from Lance’s loud display and pulling at their hands so Lance let him go, quickly stuffing them into his pockets so Lance couldn’t snatch them again. “It’s not like anything-”

“You’re so talented,” Lance gushed. “I’m so happy for you-”

He cut himself off as a firm hand landed on his shoulder, Lotor telling him, “Love, we really should be going.”

“Oh,” Lance said, that excitement waning. “Okay.” He let Lotor take his hand and begin to lead him out, turning quickly and telling Keith in a hushed tone, “Next time I see you, you better tell me the ending.”

Keith sighed as Lance was escorted away, waving his ecstatic farewell over his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Keith-” Coran said.

“It’s alright,” Keith said, taking a seat. “I should have known it was only a matter of time before Lance nosed out the truth.”

“If someone was going to work out, it _would_ be him,” Coran chuckled, joining Keith at the table and pulling a chair out for Shiro.

Keith nibbled at the inside of his cheek as he cautiously asked, “So…how did it go?”

“Everyone loved it,” Shiro told him, beaming a wide smile. “They were all really excited to work with it.”

“ _If_ you want to collaborate with us, of course,” Coran reminded them all.

“What – what if it fails?” Keith asked, only capable of imagining this going badly.

Coran’s shrug was easy-going. “Then it fails. But that could be due to the performers, or marketing, or lighting issues – failure doesn’t have to be due to the writing itself.”

A thought occurs to Keith and he pins Coran with a serious stare, “Shiro hasn’t put you up to this, has he?”

“Keith-!” Shiro cried, offended.

“He hasn’t paid you, or blackmailed you, or switched out my writing for something better, has he? We both know he likes to meddle.”

Shiro scoffed and huffed, aghast, but Coran laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling and deciding to humour the anxious writer. “I swear he has done nothing of the sort. My interest in working with you is because of the work itself: I think together we could make something beautiful. What do you say?”

Coran cast a hand between them, waiting for a firm grasp and a shake to seal the deal.

Keith took a deep breath, trying to ignore the many ways this could go terribly wrong, and reached forwards.

*****

It was lucky Keith was in a lull between jobs: Coran was paying him enough to get by as he redesigned his story into a script, breaking the writing into stage scenes and for once having the time to actually flesh out his characters. He found himself coming to the club with Shiro in the early afternoons and working at the tables during rehearsals, letting the strange musical world wash over him and embed itself in his words.

Life was…weird, to him. It seemed strange to be able to spend so much time on something he considered merely a hobby. It was exciting and terrifying, and embarrassing as performers cast him curious glances and tried to sneak peaks over his shoulder.

Because they wanted to know the ending: everyone was desperate for the conclusion, and he had no idea what he was going to do. So he edited and perfected the previous work, hoping the finale would come to his mind if he just let the story mull in the back of his mind.

“Hey Keith – mind if I bother you?”

Keith jumped, head popping up to take in Hunk smiling down at him. He gestured to the chair next to him and Hunk sat. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” The pianist told him. “I was just wondering if you would maybe help me flesh out some of the songs I’m working on?”

“You need _my_ help with music?” Keith asked, puzzled with the suggestion.

Hunk chuckled at Keith’s confusion, shaking his head. “I need your help with the _characters,_ if that’s okay with you? It’s early – no one will be using the stage for a bit so we have some time.”

“I don’t know how-”

“I’d just like to see if you feel I’m capturing the character’s personalities,” Hunk explained, trying to wind down Keith’s reaction. “See if the music fits with them. I’d really appreciate if you’d help me dig down into them.”

“Sure,” Keith said, gathering his things into a neat pile and following Hunk down the front. “Though I really don’t think I can be of much help.”

“If anything, it’s nice having an objective set of ears.”

Keith felt weird as he walked up the steps onto the stage, the hall of chairs seeming to grow larger, the room centring on him. The floor felt slippery, immediately making him fear that he was going to slip and fall in plain view of the room.

Hunk sat down at the piano, raising his fingers to the keys, then paused a moment. “Actually, do you mind if Lance joins us?”

“Lance?”

“Yeah,” Hunk smiled softly. “He and I tend to write together – he’s the lyrics man, and could probably help us out.”

“That sounds okay to me-” Keith starts to say, eyes raising as he see’s a figure grinning step out from behind the stage curtains, emerging with a dramatic flourish of fabric.

“ _Lance,”_ Hunk sighed, “I said I would come get you.”

“Keith said it was okay,” Lance defended with a sly grin, “And I’m here now. Saves us time in the long run.”

“Has anyone ever pointed out that you have an infuriating ability to make what you want to happen, happen?” Keith asked him as Lance practically danced around him.

“You know, I don’t think they have,” Lance pretends to ponder for a minute before his grin widens and he plops himself down on the edge of Hunk’s piano stool. “So we going to write some music or what?”

“Or what.” Hunk answered. “Keith is going to help us understand the characters a bit more.”

“Or…he could tell us the ending,” Lance suggested, his face falling as he watched the look on Keith’s face. “Aw come on – you still haven’t finished it?”

“I just…I haven’t found the one that feels right,” Keith tried to explain, feeling embarrassed that he couldn’t even finish his story. But he had always been like this, struggling to finish what he started. The stories always seem so simple, until he gets to the ending and then it all goes blank. Anything he wants to write ends up feeling forced or unsatisfying, the papers ultimately ending up crumpled and thrown into the bin. Eventually the unfinished piece was cast aside and Keith moved on to something he thought he could actually finish.

Only now he was being paid for his story, and not finishing it and hiding it away was no longer an option.

“We could help you?” Lance offered.

“Lance, we’re here for _music,_ remember? Last I checked you were a singer, not a writer.” Hunk told him, raising his hands to the keys to try out some chord progressions.

“I _write_ the lyrics Hunk!”

“I’ll work it out eventually,” Keith cuts in before the pair can descend into bickering.

“He’ll work it out eventually,” Hunk repeats, just in case Lance heard only what he wanted to hear. “For now, let’s focus on music.”

“Okay okay,” Lance rescinds. “So who first?”

“First?” Keith asks.

“Which character,” Hunk explains. “We sort of want exposition pieces for each character’s introduction. Give the audience a chance to get to know them, connect with them.”

Keith frowns, “Do you really need-?”

“Yes!” Lance says. “If you want people to care about the characters, you need them to know who they are.”

“But you guys seem to like them well enough?”

“Just trust us, Keith.”

Keith wasn’t sure if this was really necessary but, as they pointed out, they were the professionals here and knew better than him. He walked forwards and leaned his back against the piano. “What do you want to know?”

“Okay…” Hunk said, grabbing a notepad and pencil to take notes. “How about we start with the painter. What was his name again?”

“Quamar,” Lance answered before Keith did, his voice dreamy, “The man who lives his life in paints instead of the real world.”

“You seem to have the characters figured out,” Keith said, mildly impressed that Lance even bothered to remember the character’s name. “I’m not sure you’re going to need me-”

“That’s all superficial stuff,” Lance said. “We want to know his past, where he came from.”

“It’s not relevant to the story though.”

“It _is,_ ” Lance stressed. “Otherwise we can’t understand why he’s acting the way he is. Why does he paint what he wants to experience, why does he hide from the scarfweaver when he’s desperate to talk to him?”

“I guess I’ve never really thought about it,” Keith says with a shrug, noting instantly the disappointment in the pair.

“Could you try?” Hunk asked. He was a lot less pushy than Lance, seemingly taking the approach to coax responses out of Keith.

Keith nodded, looking away from them and up into the rafters of the theatre, trying to think about the painter. But when he imagined the painter he just saw himself, standing alone in a room of canvas, content in the silence right up until the day he wasn’t.

“He…” Keith isn’t sure he should steal from his own past to pad out a character, surely it was cheating? But he couldn’t consider any other start to the painter’s life to make him act the way he does than what Keith himself went through. “He’s always been alone: no parents, no family. It’s like he came from the void of nothing, simply put into the world with no connections to anyone or anything.

“He spends his younger years in an orphanage, living with too many children and too little food and clothing to go around. He sleeps on the floor, and anything he wants to claim as his is taken, because in his world he is no one and is undeserving.”

As Keith is talking, Hunk tries out some chords, sorrowful notes to accent the difficult start to life K- the character has faced. It’s soothing in the saddest way, and helps Keith continue talking.

“He’s still young when he runs away and finds a life for himself on the streets.” Shiro isn’t in his story so Keith decides to keep him out of his retelling – no point giving more away than he needs to. “For a while he was just a beggar, until he found out the world didn’t care for those in need of help. So he got by committing unsavoury jobs: pick-pocketing, scamming, making store owners turn the other way before he snatched whatever he could reach and ran. And this is how he survived until he was old enough to be hired and work a job.

“And then he just sort of stumbles upon painting one day, realises he loves it.” Keith then shrugs and cuts himself off, thinking they really didn’t need to know much more.

“For a character often referred to as ‘the painter’, his backstory really doesn’t have much painting in it,” Lance says suspiciously.

But Keith doesn’t want to get into how the painter found painting, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“That’s more than enough to work off of though,” Hunk says excitedly, scribbling profusely. “This is super helpful Keith - thank you.”

“How about the scarfweaver?” Lance asks. “Shams?”

At this Keith pulls a blank and his mouth goes dry for a moment, trying and failing to pull a past from thin air. “That…I suppose that could use some work.”

Lance’s face blanched, “You don’t have _any_ idea what he had been through?”

“He is mainly just supposed to be the romantic interest,” Keith tried to defend. “I don’t know-”

“ _Just_ the romantic interest?” Lance cried. “He’s a person!”

“He’s a figment of imagination, Lance,” Keith said, crossing his arms and sounding defensive. “He’s a nice person who makes scarves and gave up his future to help Quamar.”

“But _why?_ ” Lance pushed, clearly displeased with Keith’s answer. “Why would he do that?”

“He’s a nice guy!” Keith snapped.

Hunk tried to cut in and stop the disagreement, but Lance just talks over him. “That’s not believable Keith. He can’t be just this perfect person – he needs flaws. He needs a way for people to connect to him – it’s a misjustice leaving him as just a pretty face!”

“Well, what do you suggest?” Keith asked, the hair at the back of his neck bristling. Why did Lance care? Why did he have to bring to light the glaring holes in Keith’s planning?

“I’m just saying,” Lance said, trying to hide his irritation, “That its disrespectful to just make the character one note, who’s only trait is to be pretty and _nice._ What if he did it for selfish reasons – what if he was tired of having nothing and took the easy way out?”

“What?” Keith asked, not keeping up with Lance’s train of thought as Hunk side-eyed his friend with an uneasy look.

“Yeah,” Lance nodded, seemingly taken with his idea. “Why does he have to do it all for love – why can’t he just have been selfish? Everyone else makes terrible decisions, why is he any different? And that’s the end, the scarfweaver telling Quamar that he isn't enough for him and breaking his heart.”

“That’s a bit depressing, Lance,” Hunk says, no longer pressing keys of the piano, his fingers hovering over them silently.

“Come on Hunk, that’s life!” Lance says, “Life isn’t fair, and it’s depressing, and when you think there’s something good it all comes crashing down. Shouldn’t we be striving for more than the bog-standard happy ending?”

“I think Coran wants this to be a bit more uplifting than that-”

“It’s realistic though. Look,” Lance says, “just hear me out. What if the scarfweaver is just a glorified gold-digger?”

“But he turned down the prince so many times.”

“Maybe he wanted to feel wanted?” Lance shrugged. “Maybe the attention felt nice, especially after the painter had been ignoring him.”

Keith spoke up, defending his fictitious character, “He wasn’t _ignoring_ him.”

“Oh you’re right,” Lance said sarcastically, “He just stopped talking to him and spent all his time looking at his blank canvas. Stopped coming to the marketplace so much that he didn't even notice Shams was being proposed to _every day._ ”

“But they were in love,” Keith said, hearing just how naïve he sounded.

“And maybe Shams wanted more than that,” Lance said coldly, and Keith couldn’t help but think of Lance talking to him in the dead of night.

_‘What they don’t tell you in fairy tales is that love isn’t enough…’_

“I think I’ve got something I’d like to try – just let me try and sell this to you.” Lance says and jumps up from the seat, twirling and turning to Hunk. “Hunk, you remember Blank Space?”

Hunk’s face instantly blanches, and he looks unhappy as he says, “I don’t like that one, Lance.”

“I know you don’t, but it fits this character, and we've never given it a debut. Come on,” Lance whined, “If we don’t like it we can move on. But I think it’d be a hit."

Hunk sighed, eyeing Keith to see if the pair of them could outnumber the over-zealous singer. “What’s your take on this?”

“I don’t like this idea,” He says honestly, “But I’ll let you try and sell it.” If he let Lance try his best to persuade him and still fail surely the singer would then take no as an answer.

Hunk clearly looked uncomfortable with the idea.

“I’ll just sing acapella Hunk,” Lance warned, grinning like a devil when he saw Hunk’s resilience finally give way and start striking the keys with little warning, half hoping Lance would miss his intro and decide it was all more trouble than it was worth.

_‘Nice to meet you, where you been?_

_I could show you incredible things._

_Magic, madness, heaven, sin,_

_Saw you there and I thought_

_Oh my god, look at that face_

_You look like my next mistake_

_Love’s a game, do you want to play?’_

Already Keith can see exactly why Hunk isn’t a fan of this song, especially considering Lance wrote his own lyrics. It worried him that this piece had been waiting in the wings, that something had made Lance think this to the point he had written it down and was prepared to tell the world.

“I don’t think-” Keith tried to say but Hunk and Lance continued on. The singer was focused to the point of fault, his eyes having fallen closed as his voice started to get louder, letting it fill the empty hall.

_‘So it’s going to be forever_

_Or its going to go down in flames._

_You can tell me when it’s over_

_If the high was worth the pain.’_

“Guys-” Keith said, louder than before. Lance had a gift to make a crowd empathise with him, to feel what he wanted them to feel, only now it was spreading a sickening energy that turned Keith’s stomach.

‘ _Find out what you want_

_Be that boy for a month._

_Wait, the worst is yet to come-”_

_“_ Stop!” Keith shouted over the noise, relieved as Hunk stopped playing. But Lance’s eyes were still closed and he clearly wasn’t in the room anymore, his voice straining as he pushed himself-

_‘Screaming, crying, perfect storm_

_I can make all the tables turn._

_Rose garden filled with thorns-”_

Hunk got up and gripped Lance’s shoulders, asking him to stop. When Lance’s eyes opened they were shiny with unshed tears, his breath heaving as his voice died in his throat.

“Stop, buddy,” Hunk said softly, his brown eyes drawing Lance in as though to convince him they were alone. Keith felt out of place watching this, painfully aware that he shouldn't be present for this level of vulnerability. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

“I-” Lance said dumbly, stepping back from Hunk’s grip and furiously wiping at his eyes. “I need a smoke,” He tells them, his voice shaky as he exits the stage.

“Is- Is he okay?” Keith asked, in a state of shock over the atmosphere change in the past few minutes.

“As okay as he can be,” Hunk says mysteriously. “I think we’re done for the day thought. Would you mind if we pick this up some other time?”

“Of course,” Keith says, relieved. While it had led to a disagreement, Keith had to admit Lance had a point about the scarfweaver: how could he just be leaving one of his main characters as nothing more than a pretty face, reduced to a weak plot device who didn't matter in the long run. That’s not what Keith had envisioned.

But for now the air in the hall still felt heavy with that sickening energy, and Keith decided he was done for the day. He packed up his supplies and decided to go home, to see if he could get work done there, but took pause as he opened the staff exit to find Lance taking a long drag of his cigarette, leaning his weight heavily against the wall.

The singer turned his head towards the open door, opening his eyes and appraising Keith for a minute before turning away and taking another drag. “Hey Red.”

“Hey,” Keith said awkwardly. He tried not to notice how swollen and red Lance’s eyes were, how hard the singer was trying to keep from looking Keith in the eye.

“Sorry about that,” Lance told him. “It was a stupid idea-”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Keith said. “Just…untrue.”

“Oh yeah?” Lance raised an eyebrow. “You don’t seem to have paid much mind to the scarfweaver – for all you know it could be true.”

Keith closed the door and stepped next to Lance, leaning against the wall as well so the pair mirrored one another. “I may not know the specifics, but I know the scarfweaver well enough to know they would never do something like that.”

Lance laughed but it was something cruel and heavy, something that didn’t sound right coming from the singer’s mouth. “People can surprise you in the worst way, Keith. You should remember that.”

“I personally think the scarfweaver was told they were nothing for so long that they actually started to believe it…” Keith says, Lance’s hand pausing as he rose the cigarette to his lips. “They’re not a bad person – bad people just keep taking advantage and making them think it’s their fault.”

“You don’t know anything Red.” Lance’s voice was low and fragile, taking a drag before he could let himself say anything else.

“I know enough,” Keith said, thinking of what Lance had told him in the apartment across the road.

“You don’t though,” Lance countered, watching as the smoke lazily rose away from the cigarette. “You prefer to hide from the world so it can’t keep pushing you down. That’s a fair choice, but don’t watch on from a distance and judge those who dared to keep themselves out in the open.”

“Lance-”

“You’re naïve, Keith.” Lance didn’t sound cruel or angry as he spoke, just…sad, each word holding a lot more meaning than you would first thing. “That isn’t a bad thing, and it’s not to sound condescending. But don’t presume you know someone when you’ve only had a single conversation with them.”

Those words stung. Keith shirked back with a flinch, already feeling guilty. “I didn’t mean it like that-”

“I know,” Lance says, voice far too kind for how sad he sounded. He rolled his head to the side and finally met Keith’s eye, mouth quirking into a weak smile. “I know, don’t worry. I’m not upset at you, I’m just…upset.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Keith asked, watching as Lance flicked the butt of his cigarette across the alley and promptly pulled another out to light.

“You don’t need to care,” Lance said, lighting the cigarette and already drawing in a deep breath, the embers at its tip burning a dark red, grey smoke floating up between them. “I don’t need pity every time I end up crying around you, which seems to be often-”

“You told me I was allowed to despise you,” Keith said before Lance could continue. “Which means I’m also allowed _not_ to despise you. I am allowed to have my own opinion of what you went through and what you did, and I’m allowed to still want to have you as a friend after that. And not a ‘pity-friendship’,” Keith said firmly, “A friendship-friendship.”

Lance shakes his head, smiling to himself. “And there’s that naivety.”

Keith scowled, “I don’t understand why it’s naïve of me to choose understanding instead of judgement.”

“It’s _naïve_ ,” Lance said, “Because you can’t make a decision when you’ve only seen the tip of an iceberg. Your choice of friendship is misinformed.”

“Then why don’t you give me a bit more information,” Keith says, “So you know I have made a rational and informed decision?”

“And if you don’t like it?”

Keith shrugs, “Then I’m allowed to despise you – remember?”

“Well, you _have_ earned one secret,” Lance says, side-eyeing Keith. “I’m impressed that you actually showed Shiro your work, especially since I only asked you to _consider_ doing it.”

Keith thinks back on their drunken conversation, of Lance trying to pry Keith’s writing from the darkness and the promise that if he did he would tell him about a similar instance he had been through.

“Well, I write my own lyrics.”

“I know that already,” Keith said.

“I know,” Lance says. “But I’m talking about when I showed them to someone for the first time. That someone was Hunk, and it was awful and terrifying. It was after Nyma, around when Hunk and I became friends and started living together. I always loved poetry, and after Nyma it was easier to put what I had in my head on paper. And Hunk asked and asked about it until finally I gave in and let him read it. And it changed everything.”

“How?”

“Because he took a lot of my words, a lot of my memories and feelings that were causing me pain, and put music to them. Music that pushed them on, or lifted them, or just let you wallow in the sadness for a few minutes - he gave me an outlet to channel those words. Because songs let you purge the pain, but then they end and you get a feeling of closure, even if it’s not permanent. He gave me a gift with his music, and got me to where I am today.”

Keith mulled over this for a minute, of some of the songs he had heard Lance sing so far: that flirtatious side that was almost like poison, or feeling like you weren’t good enough, or how angry you were at the world-

“And today’s song?” Keith asked, trying to help and prompt Lance into talking about his reaction.

“It’s an old one,” Lance said. “I wrote it about two years ago – Hunk really hates it.”

“And why is that?”

“Because he doesn’t agree with my view on it.”

Keith felt a lump growing in his throat as the air became thick and heavy around them. “It seemed to be about someone that didn’t like themselves very much-”

“It’s about a gold-digger who manipulates and plays people to get what they want,” Lance says easily as though he was just talking about what he planned to make for dinner that evening. “Who uses others and takes advantage of them.”

Keith doesn’t know what he should say to that, but it doesn’t matter because Lance continues to explain.

“I’m only with Lotor for his money,” He says with a hard voice, finishing another cigarette and turning to face Lance. “I marry him and I’m set for life: he looks after me, buys me anything I could ever need, makes me a star.” The level of self-loathing in Lance’s voice as he talks about himself is sickening and upsetting, Keith wanting to counter everything he’s saying but knowing there’s little he could say that would actually get through.

“I’m a fucking dirt-bag,” Lance practically spits, narrowing his eyes and looking at Keith coldly. “Using other people because I didn’t like being used. You still want to associate with someone like that Keith?”

“I’m still not going to despise you,” He says, feeling as though he and Lance were squaring up to one another, crowding close and trying to stare down the other. Lance’s tone was vicious and lashing, violently protecting something fragile he clearly didn’t want Keith to see.

“Why not!” Lance shouts, his voice echoing down the alley. “How can you possibly not _hate_ someone so disgusting?”

“Because I may be naïve,” Keith said, his gaze unwavering as he pushed back against the surging emotion rippling off of Lance, refusing to let it infect hi. “And I may not know how the world works, but I know _people._ And I think there’s more to this than you’re telling me. Tip of the iceberg, right?”

“You’re lying,” Lance said, his frame visibly trembling, hands curled into tight fists to keep himself held back.

“It’s not a lie, and it certainly isn’t pity,” Keith promises, the pair of them practically pressed against one another at this point, the dangerous atmosphere around them seeming to push them towards confrontation. “It’s the truth, and while you may not be used to hearing it you’re damn well going to have to get used to it because we’re _friends,_ whether you like it or not!”

Lance blinks at him widely at those words, thought process seeming to spark and short circuit behind his eyes. They both hold their breaths, realising just how close they both are standing to one another, raw and ragged and panting.

And suddenly the world is a blur as Lance closes in to him and presses their lips together, hands tangling in Keith’s hair to keep his face close as Keith’s hands automatically come up to rest on Lance’s hips, gripping the material of his trousers. There’s no thinking, no speaking, the pair seemingly trapped in a world of their own for endless moments, searching desperately for something they needed in the other. It’s exhilarating, and it’s confusing, and it’s messy, and it’s _impossible-_

_It's impossible- it's impossible- they couldn't- they **shouldn't** -_

They heavily land back in their own world when their lips break apart, both of them panting and staring at one another with wide eyes, ocean-blue clashing against endless-darkness, Keith’s hands clinging to Lance’s waist and Lance’s fingers tangled in Keith’s hair.

“Shit,” Lance whispers, both frozen with shock over what they had done, and what it could possibly mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh...
> 
> Also, Keith not being able to finish anything he starts?? Big mood.


	7. Oops I Did It Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why deal with your mistakes when you can furiously ignore them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday!!!  
> This week's song of choice is Postmodern Jukebox's cover of 'Oops I Did It Again', found [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g_HN50TLuaI)  
> Be warned, this chapter mainly exists to stir up angst.
> 
> Caveat: I haven't had a chance to edit just yet so please don't yell at me!

Things were not good.

Well, from an outside perspective things were great. He had a doting fiancé, a job he loved, and he had recently been given a starring role in the Café de L’Altea’s upcoming show, ‘ _The Price of a Moment’_. Things were rosy, they were perfect and how could he ask for more?

But on the inside? Lance’s head was a _mess._ A twisting disaster of convoluted feelings and ill-conceived thought: guilt rising to choke him, anger simmering beneath the surface, fear cold as steal slicing in his gut. He was angry he had kissed Keith – he was angry that Keith had _let_ him kiss him! It was a moment of weakness in the remnants of a panic attack where all conscious thought had crumbled and he acted on impulse. Keith should have stopped him-

In the back of his mind he knew this was all his own fault, but he could only process so much at a time. So best to focus on getting past the fact he had kissed Keith before even considering the _why._

A kiss on his cheek made him flinch violently, almost dropping the sharp knife in his hand he was using to prepare dinner.

“You look lost in thought, mon trésor,” Lotor said into his ear, ignoring Lance’s flinch and pressing up against his back, his searing heat pinning Lance against the counter.

“I’m wielding a knife,” Lance said, righting his grip on the handle to ensure he didn’t go throwing it across the room. “Kind of a good idea to focus on what you’re doing.”

“Mmhhmm,” Lotor rumbled, burying his face into Lance’s neck. “How nice to come home to my beloved preparing dinner for me.”

“How kind of me to spend my day off doting on you,” Lance tried to tease but he felt as though the words fell flat, slicing the onions slowly to avoid his fingers. The teasing triggered another wave of guilt in his gut and he struggled to swallow around the lump in his throat.

Lotor chuckled, not noticing the change, and turned to fetch two glasses and pour the pair of them some dark red wine. “So how else did you spend your day?” He asked, sitting the filled glass down in front of Lance before settling at the table.

Lance’s thoughts plummeted for a moment, drowning in the mix of guilt and anger and shame all over again-

“Nothing much,” He admitted, keeping his back to Lotor as he kept his voice steady. “Started working on a new song.”

“Oh really?” Lotor purred. “Is it about me?”

Lance shook his head, biting his lip: he didn’t trust himself to answer aloud.

This piqued Lotor’s interest. “Can I read what you’ve got so far?”

“I don’t think so,” Lance said hastily. “It’s personal-”

“All your songs are personal,” Lotor counters. “And you’ve told me about _all_ of them.”

Not all…

“It’s not ready,” Lance said, glancing over his shoulder at his imploring fiancé, “It still needs vetted-” Instead of an onion, the knifed sliced cleanly into the tip of Lance’s finger. He gasped and dropped the knife with a clatter, curling a protective hand around the wound and swearing under his breath. Blood seeped through his fingers and down his knuckles, a stark red against his skin, the wound stinging viciously.

Lotor jumped up and knocked the table as Lance turned, his wine spilling in an almost identical shade of red, as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to Lance. “Are you okay?”

“Damn it,” Lance cursed, holding the cloth against the wound and trying to keep from dripping blood on himself and Lotor. The white kerchief quickly stained red, but seemed to help in stemming the flow. Ruining the fine cloth only made Lance feel worse, “I’m sorry – I’ll get you a new one-”

“Sit down,” Lotor told him, firmly leading him to a chair, pulling it out and away from the wine dripping off of the edge of the table.

“I’m an idiot,” Lance apologised, not even feeling the sting of the knife anymore beneath the embarrassment that burned in his chest. Here Lotor was taking care of him, right after Lance had gone and kissed-

“Let me see,” Lotor said, peeling back the cloth and taking a look.

Lance’s lip quirked up slightly, “Will I live, doctor?”

Lotor returned the kerchief and took control of applying pressure. He pressed a little too hard and Lance winced, Lotor apologising and telling him it needs to be done if he wants it to get better.

“I’m sorry,” Lance said, eyeing the chopping board that had ended up with red spattered drops across it and the prepared vegetables, “I think I’ve ruined dinner-”

“You could have lost a finger,” Lotor cut in, “So all in all, I think we’re doing okay.” He turned Lance’s hand over and raised it to his lips, planting a kiss to the back of his hand, avoiding the trail of blood.

Lance’s face blanched, the blood draining from his cheeks and leaving him pale and light-headed. Lips against his hand, against _his_ lips. Burning hands on his waist, his fingers twisting in dark black locks of hair. The gut-destroying guilt mixing confusingly with a feeling of elation he had never felt before, almost giddy-

Lance leaned heavily against the back of the chair, not realising his vision had gone fuzzy with unshed tears.

“Lance?” Lotor asked, placing a light hand to his cheek. “Do you feel faint? What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” Lance said, hearing a sob in his voice as his chest hitched. He wanted those two words to mean a lot more than how Lotor took them, trying to convince himself they were strong enough to fix everything he had done. “I’m so sorry-”

“Hey, hey-” Lotor stroked his thumb over Lance’s cheekbone, feeling Lance press into the comforting touch, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Lance said, trying to calm himself. “I ruin everything-”

“Shh, shh, that’s ludicrous,” Lotor said softly, gripping Lance’s hand _hard._ “Having you makes me happier than words can describe.”

That statement only made Lance feel worse, feeling that guilt press in on his chest and leave him struggling to breathe.

“Come on,” Lotor said, winding a firm hand around him and helping him out the chair. “Let’s go lie down.”

Lance let himself be led into Lotor’s room and sat on the bed, the Duke not caring if they ended up staining the sheets red as he pushed on Lance’s shoulders to get him to lie down against the pillows. Lance wanted to run, to grab his things and leave as soon as possible: he didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve a fiancé who cared about him and looked after him like this. He didn’t deserve this kindness, not when he had betrayed Lotor’s trust like he had. All these years he had been torn up over what Nyma had done to him, now he was doing the exact same thing to someone else – using them, lying to them. It made him sick to his stomach to know what he had done and the only thing he wanted to do was tell Lotor and come clean.

But a memory stopped him: the memory of how it felt to find out, of discovering that the person wasn’t what you thought they were. The betrayal, the hurt, the feeling of not wanting to have to take another breath because everything, every moment, was agony ever since he found out. And the emptiness when he couldn’t take it anymore-

It may be selfish, or selfless, but either way Lance decided to keep his mouth shut.

*****

For a few days things seemed to come up that kept Keith from the club: extra work, sickness, needing to buy new supplies. He prattled off his excuses, unable to go in and literally face the music. He hadn’t figured out how he could explain himself to Lance.

The singer had looked horrified as the pair pulled away from one another, staring at each other with wide eyes, taking too long a moment to realise their hands were still on each other. Lance fled into the club, the door slamming after him, and Keith stayed on the street, too shocked and disgusted to move for a very long time.

He felt perverted, taking advantage of someone who was emotionally vulnerable. Whatever Lance had been going through had pushed him into kissing Keith, and Keith had _let_ him. Not only that but he had kissed him _back,_ taking advantage of someone who was unstable. He felt sickened of himself, of preying on the vulnerable under the guise of help. No wonder Lance looked horrified.

But it was coming to a point where he either had to return to the club, or cancel his contract with Coran. Shiro was regularly checking in on him, asking if he was okay, if they wanted to walk to the club together. And Keith was rapidly running out of excuses – at this rate, he was going to have to tell the truth just to get Shiro off his back.

But there was no way he could allow himself to do that – right? Because revealing that could ruin Lance’s life, could upset his fiancé – oh _god_ he had a fiancé for Christ’s sake! A fiancé he was apparently only with for his money…but even now, after all this, Keith couldn’t believe that.

It could ruin the show, ruin Lance’s chances at his dream, reducing him to a subject of whispers and rumours. After going through all his hardship, Lance would have resurfaced into a new life only to have it all ripped away from him because Keith decided not to listen to his brain for once, making the decision to do what he wanted and not what he _should_. This could ruin Lance’s life, so surely Lance should make the decision whether or not to tell the world that Keith was a scumbag? Keith had already taken enough choices from the singer, he should get to control this decision.

There was a part of him that whispered that in not coming clean, he would also keep himself safe. Save his reputation from being tarnished, get to keep his show, protect himself from those judging eyes-

It may be selfish, or selfless, but either way Keith decided to keep his mouth shut.

*****

“Coran, you can’t be serious!” Allura rolled her eyes, crossing her arms across her chest. “We’re already swamped with regular rehearsals _and_ trying to get to grips with Keith’s show. We don’t have time for this!”

“I understand, Allura,” Coran tried to placate, noting the stressed expression on many of his performer’s faces. “It’s a difficult time for us all, but we need the investors and the advertising.”

“What exactly would it entail, Coran?” Shiro asked, trying to defuse the tension between the siblings, Allura casting burning looks in Coran’s direction as the owner graciously accepted the opportunity to take a break from his sister.

“When I say _gala,_ I mean an evening of drinks and idle chatter,” Coran tried to explain, feeling Allura’s eyes boring a hole in the side of his head. “Lotor suggested we host an evening to draw in those in the community who are interested in learning more, who would possibly invest and help fund the show. We’d have some light music, if Hunk and the band would be so kind,” He said, gesturing towards the band who were already nodding, “No one else would need to perform, but I _would_ need a few of the bar staff to man the bar,” He said, begging Pidge silently with his gaze.

“So we don’t get an invite to the fancy party?” She said snidely.

“You don’t _have_ to work,” Coran promised her. “I can hire in others for the night. I just figured I would ask considering the guests are all incredibly wealthy and should tip very well-”

“Hell, if Pidge doesn’t want to do it, I will!” Lance piqued up, laughing as Pidge spluttered and blustered over him.

“No no, I’ll happily work the shift!” She practically shouted. “But if the tips are shit, I’m coming after your head Coran!”

The man chuckled and shook his head, “Fair terms, Pidge. But the rest of you,” He said, clapping his hands and gesturing to the performers, “I would just need you to look presentable and act as your regular charming selves. We want to sell these people on the heart and soul of the club, and that is all of you!”

“Oh Coran,” Lance gushed, “You know just what to say to a boy.”

“He doesn’t need to convince _you_ to go,” Pidge said, elbowing the singer in the ribs. “You’ll have to turn up to be Lotor’s arm candy. Can’t have him solo at his own party.”

“It’s a _gala,_ not a party,” Coran said.

“What it is is idiotic,” Allura amended. “We don’t have time-”

“We need to make the time,” Coran told her. “We need the show to be a success, to draw in an audience-”

“We have a regular audience who we will be turning away from the doors for an entire night, Coran. Fridays are one of our busiest shows.” The siblings fought as though they stood in front of a mirror, their bodies mirroring one another as they gestured and moved with the argument. “We don’t have the money to be shutting and turning customers away-”

“But in the long run, Allura-”

“There won’t _be_ a long run if we can’t make it through the short run!” Allura said, the pair both red in the cheeks.

“The show-”

“The show without an ending, from a writer who no one in the city has heard of before?” Allura asked, noting Shiro flinch on behalf of Keith, who was seemingly not in attendance. “You’re pinning my future – _e_ _veryone’s future_ – on Keith and his story. What if it doesn’t work?”

“And what if it _does?”_ Coran asked. He addressed the room as he talked to Allura, letting everyone hear his words. “We’re in the endgame here – we need a Hail Mary if we’re going to even keep the club open.”

“We’re fine-”

“We’re not,” Coran said sadly, leaning his back against the stage and shaking his head. “I’ve gone over the numbers: audiences continue to dwindle, we’re getting less and less people through the door. If things don’t change, I doubt we can carry on much longer before things start turning dire.”

His words soured the taste of everyone’s mouths, and they looked to one another uneasily, as though working out who would be the first to go.

Lance shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling useless at the current state of affairs. He knew for a fact that the club would never shut from lack of funds, but it was a guarantee he didn't share.

“We need to put our faith into something big,” Coran explained, “Something that could bring us back into the public eye. I believe that Keith’s play could do that.”

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” Allura hissed in hushed tones, everyone pretending like they couldn’t hear their conversation. 

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Coran said with regret, neither sibling having the energy to fight anymore after the atmosphere of the hall had turned so heavy.

“I say we take a vote,” Shiro suddenly said as he stood from his chair, cutting through the fog of uncertainty enveloping the room. “Whoever agrees with Coran that we should host the gala and put our faith into the show, raise your hand.”

Coran and Shiro’s hands rose without hesitation, watching with anticipation as more hands joined theirs until they had a clear majority. Only a few performers chose not to raise their hands to take the risk in the end, Allura included.

“Then it’s settled,” Coran announced, clapping his hands together. “We host the gala to guests invited by Lotor, and work to capturing their intrigue and, subsequently, their investments! Any questions?”

The hall was eerily quiet as all the performers stayed silence, each mulling over the meaning of this course of action.

“Excellent. Well then,” Coran stood straight, keeping his brave face firmly in place. “The gala will be a week from this Friday. All those wishing to attend must be outfitted according to the dress code – anyone struggling for an outfit is welcome to peruse the costume department for something suitable. Goodnight everyone, and a safe travel home!”

*****

Lance loved the days where he and Hunk sat on the floor in their living room and shared new song ideas with one another, Lance swapping written lines with Hunk’s phrases of melody. The pair had constructed songs in this way for years, and it was something to look forward to. Because even though it always began with Lance feeling uncertain and ill-prepared to share the new deep dark thoughts of his mind, he always knew Hunk would lift those fears with well placed chords and soaring crescendos, the notes pushing Lance’s thought process on into new points of consideration.

“So, you want to tell me about this one?” Hunk asked carefully, his eyes scanning the new page.

“Not entirely,” Lance tells him truthfully, listening to Hunk hum in response.

This was the issue with their system: when Lance needed to share the words but not their source. Hunk knew him better than anyone and would always ask for a song’s meaning, check in if Lance would like to talk about it. But he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t ready to talk about what he had done. He couldn’t imagine the look Hunk would give him if he admitted he had kissed...kissed...kissed-

He couldn’t even _think_ about it – how was he to expect himself to have a full on discussion with Hunk?

“Okay…” Hunk said slowly with an unassuming tone, trying not to let Lance catch on to the concern that was building as he read through the new lyrics. But Hunk was an open book, and Lance could see that worried frown grow deeper and deeper as he finished reading. “So, music wise, how about something jazzy, quite laid back? Slick, easy going – keep it simple.”

Lance nodded, not really listening: whatever Hunk chose to accompany the piece was fine by him, it always worked out. He knew just how to pair his words to create something magical.

“Does that fit the character?” Hunk tried to subtly press.

“Sure,” Lance told him.

“Are you though?” Hunk said, not quite giving up. “We can switch it up – how do you imagine it?”

“Easy-going sounds good to me,” Lance half promised him, desperate to get to the point where he could sing the lyrics and get them out instead of sitting and scrutinising.

“You know, I’ve been working on more of the songs for the show,” Hunk told him, way too casually flipping through papers of other songs the pair have been working on. “I could use a hand with lyrics though - fancy helping me out?”

Lance snorted, “After last time? Sounds like a great plan, me getting the wrong idea and making a fool of myself before having an anxiety attack.” He shook his head at himself, making light of the moment, definitely not thinking about what happened afterwards-

“You were a great help,” Hunk told him honestly. It was crazy how such a large guy could be so soft and earnest: if he tried he could have easily rivalled the scariest of their bouncers, but those kind brown eyes and genuine smile gave him away for the softie he truly was. “Maybe it was just that song-”

Lance smiled, trying to distract as he chuckled and held his hands up. “Yeah yeah, I _know_ you don’t like Blank Space. I just thought it could work in that context – guess I was wrong.”

“You know that’s not how I see you, don’t you?” Hunk asked him, gesturing down to the new lyrics in his hand. “And I don’t see you like this either, whatever it means.”

A lump rose in Lance’s throat, tears threatening behind his eyes, but he refused to give in to them once again. “I know you don’t-” He tried to placate.

“This seems to have been written in a similar mindset as ‘Blank Space’,” Hunk said, his eyes searching Lance’s face, waiting for him to tell him to drop it but the singer remaining quiet. “Whatever happened to get you to write this, I bet it’s not as cut and dry as you see it. Just like ‘Blank Space’.”

Guilt weighed him down as he avoided Hunk’s eye: in the three years of their friendship, he had never actively hidden something from his friend. He had avoided talking until he was ready, sure - but this was different. The truth behind the kiss couldn’t ever be allowed to get past his lips: he could not and would not allow himself to confide in his closest friend. Because to say it out loud, to acknowledge it, would make it real and he couldn’t afford for it to actually have happened.

He really should have talked to Keith by now to straighten out the situation and ensure he’ll keep it to himself, but as of yet he hadn’t summoned the courage to approach the writer and lay down the law. His life was in a terrifying limbo and he was too much of a coward to try and fix it.

Hunk knew the true situation with Lotor, and while he didn’t agree with how Lance viewed his choices he didn’t judge and he didn’t push. He was a great friend, but this act of betrayal was too much for Lance to bear: he couldn’t consider passing it on to another.

“If you don’t want to work on it, it’s okay,” Lance told him with a weak smile, trying to appear light-hearted and reaching out to take the lyrics back and hide them from view. “They can’t all be winners-”

“No,” Hunk said firmly. He knew Lance well enough that if he wasn’t ready to talk about it, performing it could still certainly help him come around. He would support him as he always did, and he would be here when Lance was ready to talk. He refused to make assumptions based on the circulating rumours amongst the performers, keeping an open-mind for whatever his roommate needed to talk about. “I think it could be a fun piece, just let me get a pencil and we’ll work on the key.”

Lance’s smile was forced, but he was still grateful that he had such an amazing friend in Hunk. Lance wanted nothing more than to break down and crack his chest open, let Hunk see every vile shred of Lance’s guilt, have someone to share in the secret. But he couldn’t do that to his friend. He couldn’t do it to Lotor – and he certainly couldn’t do it to himself. He was morally bankrupt, and he didn’t have the right to feel okay about what he had done. 

*****

It felt like an age since Keith had dared step foot into the club, when in actual fact it had only been about a week. As he had suspected his excuses had run out and Shiro eventually called him on his bullshit. With no way to defend himself without coming clean he returned to the club, settling himself at a table at the very back of the hall in the biggest shadow he could find. He almost believed that if he kept himself very still, no one would notice him.

Of course that was a foolish wish and he really should have known better.

It seems as soon as he sits down he has guests clustering the table, performers he doesn’t have a name for crowding in close, faking politeness as they asked how he is feeling before the interrogation begins. Has he got the new pages of the script? Has he worked out the plot issues that had been raised? Has he finished writing it yet!?

He stutters his way through unsatisfying answer after unsatisfying answer, the performers catching on to the desolate situation quickly before disbanding and leaving him be. He almost manages to breathe a sigh of relief, ducking his head down to work as the chair next to him is pulled out and Allura plops herself down at his side.

“Hello…?” He says with confusion, uncomfortable beneath Allura’s formidable gaze.

Her white-silver hair cascades over her shoulders and down her back, not yet having been tied up for the day’s rehearsals. Her gaze is hard and no-nonsense, seeming to burn clean through him in its intensity.

“I take it you haven’t finished yet?” She said slowly, as if daring him to disappoint her.

The lump in his throat was prominent as he did just that, “I’m sorry-”

“Do you know how much we’re risking, betting on this?” She says. She’s not mean or cruel, just being straight to the point of injury. “This is a do or die situation for the club Keith, and Coran is hoping this show will be the one to turn it all around. But if it fails, the club is done for.”

“I…I didn’t know that,” He says with eyes wide, feeling even more pressure being piled on his back.

Allura nodded, suspecting that her brother wouldn’t have said anything. “We’re a club built with heart and soul, but that doesn’t mean the money always flows. New clubs are always opening and if you don’t have a new gimmick to draw the crowds in you are left to be forgotten about. We have almost had to close once, I don’t want to have to consider it a second time.”

“You guys almost closed?” Keith asked, surprised that Shiro had never mentioned it to him.

Allura nodded, drumming her fingertips against the table. “It was a couple of years ago now – the situation was so dire that after each show we had no idea if we would even be opening our doors again the next day. We lost a lot of staff as they looked for stable work elsewhere, and there was only a few of us managing to hang on by the skin of our teeth. I’ll never be able to thank Lotor enough for what he did.”

“Lotor?”

“Well, yeah?” Allura said and raised an eyebrow. “He’s the club’s main benefactor.”

Keith nodded, not explaining that he knew who the Duke was and that his surprise lay in his sudden appearance in the story. “So he stepped in and helped you guys out?”

“He more than helped us out,” She explained. “He gave us the funds to completely refurbish, bought over the building to reduce our rent, helped us advertise. He was a _godsend!”_

“Sounds very generous of him,” Keith said, trying to imagine what the club had looked like before the Duke had stepped in to help.

“But we’re a business at the end of the day,” Allura told him. “And I cannot allow Lotor to bail us out again – this place is an investment for him and I want to make damn sure it pays off. So, we need an ending. And honestly at this point I’d even accept the Prince and the _painter_ getting married so long as the thing I’m placing my livelihood into is actually finished.”

“I’ve finished it a number of times,” Keith surprises her, the pressure and guilt turning his stomach over in an unsettling way. Her gaze turns hard, _angry,_ at his words but he keeps talking before she can cut in. “I’ve tried the endings, but none of them seem right Allura. I write them out, I read them, and I bin them. They don’t fit, they don’t round up the story correctly.” He frowns at the pieces of paper sitting in front of him, his latest attempt at an ending, and pushes them towards Allura to allow her to skim them. “I understand you need an ending, but if there’s so much riding on this for you and the club then it needs to have a satisfying finish. Otherwise the first crowd through the doors will be the last. No matter how good the rest of the story is, if the end is bad then the entire show is bad.”

“Well what’s wrong with this?” She asks, shaking the papers at him. “This seems fine.”

This latest attempt showed him trying to get into a more romantic side, having the scarfweaver leaving the prince to live happily ever after with the painter. “It’s…hollow,” He says, struggling for the words. “It’s a predictable end that will make you smile for a mere moment before thinking about just how unrealistic it truly is. Going through all of the build-up, just for them to have a chat and suddenly everything is perfect? It needs to be messier than that.”

Allura nibbled at her lower lip, the space between her brows furrowing as she considered Keith’s words. She doesn’t say a word in argument because, despite her need for a finished project, she understands what Keith is telling her. Reading this leaves her with a slight frown as she considers how easily the entire situation would be resolved. It wasn’t real – what was the point in telling the story at all?

“Shiro trusts you, as does my brother,” She finally says, casting the papers at her side out of Keith’s reach. It’s clear this is another dud ending to be discarded of. “You’re lucky you have the faith of the two people in my life I most trust. So you had better not let us down.”

Keith swallowed with some difficulty, bobbing his head. “You have my word,” He promised.

“I better have more than that when this is over,” She warned, standing and making her exit.

Keith ran a hand through his tangled hair, letting his fingers catch in the knots there. Allura was certainly scary when she wanted to be, but Keith couldn’t blame her. If things were as dire as she alluded to, he had better not disappoint when he eventually managed to deliver on his promise. He kept his head low, his eyes trained on paper and ink as the day passed by around him, turning into night and the start of the show. He gathered his supplies and moved to the bar, he and Pidge in comfortable silence as he leached the bar lights once the main hall had gone dark and the stage curtains opened. He should really go home, but he couldn’t stand calling it a day when he had made so little headway.

The evening’s show started, various acts cycling in and out across the stage. His head perked up as Shiro entered the stage, watching as he and Allura danced with one another as a singer sang lyrics of love over them, the pair twirling in the other’s arms to the swell of the music. He frowned as the singer sold the audience on a tale of great love, and he returned his attention to his work.

He hadn’t realised that Lance was the closing act for this evening, and the pen in his hand stilled as he heard the singer address his audience, pulling chuckles with his shameless flirting. He refused to look up, to even glance in the direction of the stage, afraid of what would happen if he dared to even peek at Lance. The pair had successfully avoided one another since the…incident, and Keith would be remiss to deny that he was afraid to acknowledge the singer’s existence.

So he focused on his work as Lance’s lilting words washed over him, each syllable seeming to tug at the fabric of his clothes and try to draw him in, like each word was spoken specially for him. It was foolish and stupid, and he needed to start pulling himself out of this imaginary world he so often found himself hiding in. Thoughts like that were why he had become so deluded as to kiss the singer and why he had found himself in such a precarious position. If he gave in and let the music take him, he knew he would stumble head first into the yawning chasm stretching between he and Lance and would never make it back out of the darkness.

But despite this, he still didn’t leave. He refused to give Lance his full attention, but still he didn’t move from his seat, pretending to carry on working but not having put words on paper for a long, long time.

“We’ve just got one last song for you all – something _new_ ,” Lance’s words cut through the applause of his crowd, ensnaring Keith’s attention. He chuckled into the mic as his crowd showed their excitement, gesturing at them to calm down. “I hope you like it,” He grinned, his hip popping as the music started and he presented his new song.

‘ _I think I did it again,_

_I made you believe_

_We’re more than just friends…’_

The blood in Keith’s veins chilled at the words, feeling it drain from his face to leave his skin pale and slack. His head shot up to watch the stage, mouth dry and hanging open like a dying fish as the music washed over him. It was too late now to refuse Lance his attention: the singer had every ounce of it, keeping it tight in hand and ensuring each and every word reached the intended ears.

_‘I played with your heart,_

_Got lost in the game.’_

He had always told himself that he was foolish to think Lance was singing specifically to _him,_ embarrassed yet painfully naïve and weak to his own thought process. But how could he pretend that the words of this _brand new_ song could be for anyone else? Now he was getting exactly what he had wished for and he could feel the ground opening up below him, the earth unstable and frail as Lance turned his world upside down.

Was that all he was – a fun game for Lance to toy with? Was this song a warning, a confession, that Lance had taken the naïve writer and played him like a fiddle, left him feeling foolish over and over again on purpose, seeing how far he could push him. It was cruel, and cold, and it left him feeling sick-

He couldn’t be here anymore. Whatever Lance had wanted to say had certainly hit home to Keith: he was an entertaining little venture to be made a fool of and now Lance was bored. He grabbed at his supplies and stood, ignoring the questioning look Pidge cast him as he stormed away from the bar and out of the club. Because he couldn’t be here anymore: his delusions had been put on show and he was left ridiculed with burning cheeks and something in his eyes that definitely, _definitely_ were not tears-

He had been too busy gathering his supplies and fleeing to hear anything else Lance had to say with his song, too embarrassed to allow himself to listen one moment more.

To Keith, this was a confession from someone who used others for their own entertainment. Lance had labelled himself as a master manipulator and Keith had _consoled_ him, let himself be drawn in by the sad story and taken advantage of.

He should have known better, and he certainly wouldn’t let himself make the mistake again.

*****

_‘You see, my problem is this:_

_I’m dreaming away_

_Wishing that heroes, they truly exist._

_I cry, watching the days_

_Can’t you see I’m a fool in so many ways?_

_But to lose all my senses,_

_That is **just** so typically me.’_

But to Lance, this was an apology.

A sincere plea for forgiveness for what he had done, knowing that all he did was hurt those around him, no matter what his intentions were. He used others and played with them and tried to do the right thing and over and over again he would undo that work because he was a terrible person. The people in his life were a means to an end and he made sure to cause them hurt and anguish, any which way he could.

This song was an acknowledgement of wrongdoing, of his downfalls and his mistakes. An apology for how he always seemed to treat and hurt the people he cared about.

But it didn’t matter, because Keith had heard enough and was already long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh how silence only seems to make things worse.


	8. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the night of the Gala, and pretending he's fine isn't going as well as Keith had hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday!  
> It's exam time for me so life is fun. I was *supposed* to take a break next week to let me catch up and stay a chapter ahead of writing and take the stress off. BUT even exams couldn't keep me away and I'm still pretty much on schedule so oops I guess no break, what a shame.  
> Be warned, more trigger warnings of depression/suicide in this chapter.
> 
> This week's song is the absolutely _beautiful_ cover of Alone by Postmodern Jukebox, found [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rkx-RbnjTsc)

Keith’s shirt collar was digging into his throat, and he only had one thought: how was he in this kind of situation _again?_

Apparently – according to Coran and Shiro at least – you couldn’t host a gala to raise interest in a play without the playwright himself in attendance. He had wanted to argue against their point, to save himself from such an excruciating evening, but the look Allura gave him over their shoulders had him shutting his mouth quickly and nodding the acceptance of his invitation.

“ _Try_ to look like you’re having a good time,” Shiro whispered as Keith found himself already moving towards the dark corners of the room.

His scowl remained firmly in place, even as Shiro half-heartedly nudged his arm. “I thought we decided lying was _wrong_ Shiro.”

Shiro sighed, Adam placing a compassionate hand to his boyfriend’s shoulder and casting Keith a look. “We’re only here because of you,” He pointed out.

Keith rolled his eyes, “Trust me, this had nothing to do with me. I would rather be at home.”

Coran and Allura were moving through the crowd quickly, mingling and passing out greetings to their guests: so glad they could come, did they need another drink, isn’t the main hall marvellous – it’s all thanks to Duke Lotor don’t you know? The guestlist that Lotor had provided was extensive, each guest clad in suits and dresses so fine the mere thought of how much they had cost to buy made Keith’s eyes water. From the side-lines it was like watching a whirlpool churning around and around, guests meeting performers and performers introducing themselves to guests, a chaotic dance of polite chatter and overzealous smiles.

And at the centre of it all, as though orchestrating the entire affair, were Lance and Lotor. Lance hung tightly to Lotor as they swept new life into sections which were lacking energy, whipping the attendants up into a new frenzy of laughter, Lotor regularly calling for more drinks to delivered to the table before the pair moved on.

Seeing the singer gave Keith a rush of confusing feelings that only seemed to strengthen his desire to hide on the side-lines. He was so used to living in his world of foolish delusion that the singer’s mere presence perked him up, made him feel as though he could actually tackle this loud world – until he remembered…

_‘I got lost in the game…’_

He was a game: this was all a game for Lance’s enjoyment. He dazzled his audience with charm and charisma until they fell under his spell, then he used them for his own entertainment. There was no clearer representation than watching Lance amidst the guests now, using the crowd as a means of ensuring the upcoming show’s success: success for the show would spell success for Lance. And that was what was important, right?

And that delusion of Lance would come crashing down around Keith in a cloud of debris and that anger would return: that white-hot, _searing_ anger that left him feeling so full yet so empty all at one time. Angry with Lance for using him, angry that he had allowed himself to be used. He had been careful for so many years, always kept his distance, all to be undone by a pretty face with a convincing act. His own foolishness made him feel sick with anxiety, certain each party guest that Lance brought to laughter must be laughing at him, the naïve writer who didn’t know the difference between fact and fiction.

“Keith, come _on,”_ Shiro practically begged. “Please, at least try. This _needs_ to go well.”

And that reminder only made Keith remember the pressure at his back that Allura had piled on: the club was betting everything on him and his stupid story. A story which still didn’t have an ending, and a writer who couldn’t even _look_ at the actor who was supposed to be playing one of the main characters.

At this point the addition of even more conflicting thoughts didn’t even phase Keith: he was already overwhelmed, what was a bit more confusion? He decided to cast the emotions aside as best he could and take each day as it came: one issue at a time. What took priority now was that this stupid gala went well so that he could help the club, and that meant stopping himself brooding on the side-lines and casting himself into the throng.

Some of the wait staff had agreed to work, excited at the implication of tips, and were circling with glasses of wine around the party guests. Keith hastily snatched at two glasses as a waiter – James, wasn’t it? – walked past, ensuring he took glasses of white lest the sharp bite of red brought up more memories unbidden. He promptly upended both glasses into his mouth, slamming them down on the table beside him with too much force and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Let’s get this over with,” He said gruffly, ignoring the surprised looks on Adam and Shiro’s faces and leading the way into the crowd.

Adam and Shiro glanced at one another, certain that wherever this was going it wasn’t going to be good, before hurrying after Keith. If Keith was going to do his part and mingle, the least the pair could do was keep a supervisory eye on him.

He marched into the crowd as though he had been put at an army’s frontline, lost as to what to do next before he heard Coran calling, “Keith, m’boy!” Coran excitedly waved him over, “You simply must meet Monsieur Iverson here.”

Keith’s legs worked robotically, focusing on his attempt at being the ideal party guest: he was too stubborn to back out now, and plastered a tight smile to his face as he shook the hand of a one-eyed man he took to be Iverson.

“Monsieur Iverson runs the most noteworthy boarding school in Paris,” Coran introduces, Keith retracting his hand and feeling as though the stoic man had reduced the bones to dust with his firm grip.

Keith nodded along politely as Coran and Iverson chatted, the men laughing raucously and regularly between them and Keith stumbling to join in before the moment was over. At some point Shiro and Adam came to join them, helping smooth out Keith’s glaring lack of social skills, for which he was eternally grateful.

Coran took him under his wing and escorted him through the crowd, his hand constantly extending to be shaken, flattering words about his play spoken to him and making his cheeks blush. A lot of the guests had heard of Keith’s excellent writing – _Lotor has told us all about it!_ – and they wished for a peek at his script, or a private reading from the author himself.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” Keith tried to say casually, focused entirely on his story without an ending.

“But-”

“He’s right,” Coran chimed in, saving Keith from explaining his worries. “Best to keep it all hush-hush until opening night. Let the suspense build.”

Keith thought the guests would keep pushing for information but they chuckled at Coran’s words, clearly placated and letting their focus shift.

Keith felt as though he had been cast into a new world, the spotlights shining into the shadows where he usually dwelled. He kept a glass of wine in his hand at all times, sipping to cover the awkward silences when he couldn’t think of something to say. The wine went down too easy, but it left a comforting warmth in his gut that soothed him and convinced him to take another sip, let him breathe a little easier and make that forced smile a little less strained. He was grateful for the momentary lull, the rest of the party seeming to circulate around their small group and allow him the chance to collect himself. Hunk came over, the band taking a short break from providing background music, having the chance to mingle amongst the crowd. He entered the small group with a shy wave, introducing the woman he brought in tow.

“This is Shay,” He told them all, Keith’s eyebrows raising as he recognised the singer from the Balmera Bar. The singer whom Hunk had also managed to convince to come home with him the night he found Lance-

“It’s nice to officially meet you Shay,” Shiro said pleasantly, extending a hand in greeting. He noticed the daggers Hunk was shooting him before chuckling and rubbing at the back of his neck. “We’ve seen you perform a number of times,” He clarified, covering for the pianist and the many conversations he had hosted featuring the ‘unyielding talent’ of the singer from the Balmera Bar.

Allura joined them, introducing Keith and the group to another brother and sister duo, Romelle and Bandor Pollux, the children of the wealthy Pollux family who printed one of the most read newspapers in the city. Romelle clung to Allura’s arm as she was introduced, blushing slightly and nodding in greeting before loosening her grip and returning her hands to her sides.

“Keith – the writer?” Bandor asked, not noticing the glances his sister was sending to Allura out the corner of her eye. “Allura’s told us all about the show-”

“Well, not _all_ about it, I hope,” Coran said light-heartedly, casting Allura a warning glance. “We had agreed to keep the storyline a secret,” He said pointedly.

“We _did_ ,” Allura parroted, popping her hands on her hips. “Until Monsieur Pollux offered to have his father run an advertisement in his newspaper if I was to give him a _little_ more information about the show...”

“ _Allura-”_ Coran groaned.

“We can’t wait to see it,” Romelle cut in, well-versed in the signs of an impending fight between siblings and offering a distraction. Her eyes were an intense shade of violet as she earnestly spoke to Keith. “The way Allura told it – it’s quite beautiful.”

“Agreed,” Bandor chimed in, dipping his hands into his trouser pockets. “Though she was very elusive with the ending – perhaps you’d like to expand on it for us?”

“Now now, we don’t want to spoil it for you,” Coran chuckled, providing the same excuse he had been giving the previous guests.

“I don’t see it as a spoiler,” Bandor told him, “So much as a guarantee that it’s not a waste of time. If our father is to run an advertisement promoting your little show, we need to be sure it’s not going to ruin our own credibility.”

“ _Bandor_ ,” Romelle sighed, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be a child – the mystery just makes it all the more intriguing.” She smiled warmly, looking to Allura as she promised, “We’ll run the advertisement: don’t worry.”

“Not for me,” Bandor told her and turned towards Keith, expecting the writer to answer all of his pressing questions immediately. “I simply _must_ know – who does the scarfweaver end up with?”

Keith stammered for a moment, searching for a suitable excuse. This advertisement was a huge opportunity for the Café, he couldn’t just let it pass them by – he needed to find _something_ he could say to Bandor. “Well,” He says, clearing his throat, fidgeting idly at his shirt collar that was _too damn tight-_

_“_ Bandor, Romelle!” A voice called, the siblings’ heads turning being caught up in a hug. Lotor stepped up behind his fiancé and chucked at Lance’s display, holding tight to a squirming Bandor before relinquishing his hold. “He’s never that excited to see me,” He tells the group, earning a round of polite laughter.

Keith felt like he had been punched in the gut, feeling physically winded for a moment. He had thought he had himself under control, watching Lance from a distance and reminding himself over and over to focus on one problem at a time. He believed he could do this – until Lance came crashing into his life all over again and made him realise just how empty the lies he had been telling himself were.

Lance straightened up, his hand returning to Lotor’s forearm as he grinned widely. “It’s been too long since we’ve seen the pair of you – how are you?”

“I’ll be better once your friend here shares the end of his story,” Bandor says, nodding his head in Keith’s direction. Lance giggles, following the direction of Bandor’s gesture before realising he meant Keith. The singer grew speechless for a moment, hand subconsciously tightening on Lotor’s arm as his eyes grew wide. Keith panicked, thinking the pair would need to think of an excuse for the adverse reactions to one another, but the conversation was already carrying on without them, leaving them in their own private moment of awkwardness.

“So you can tell your father and tell the whole city the story before we can?” Lotor gibed, ignoring Bandor’s frown. “Not on your life, Bandor. I know your family far too well to go sharing our secrets with you so easily.”

Romelle giggled as Bandor spluttered, “That’s not what I was-”

“Don’t lie,” Romelle told him, enjoying helping to embarrass her brother as his cheeks turned red. “We all know what you were after.”

“We could arrange a private showing?” Lance suggested to the group, looking for Coran’s approval. “Ahead of our official opening – a few esteemed guests getting the VIP treatment?”

“That’s a wonderful idea, Lance,” Lotor said, placing a kiss to his fiancé’s cheek. He smirked and raised a brow, “Would that suit you, Bandor?”

“If I _must_ ,” The guest grumbled, clearly outnumbered and outsmarted here. “Doesn’t matter,” He huffs, “It’s obvious the painter and the scarfweaver are going to get together.”

He doesn’t know what possessed him, perhaps the fourth - or was it fifth? - glass of wine, or the dam giving way now that Lance stood just a few feet ahead of him, but Keith found himself wilfully inserting himself into a conversation, asking with a slightly argumentative tone, “And why do you think that?”

The rest of the group looked as surprised as Keith was to hear him speak, especially without prompting, but Bandor didn’t seem to catch on to everyone else’s reactions.

He shrugs, “It’s obvious. That’s what all those stories are about. True love concurring all, blah blah blah.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Lance asked, feeling a tension rolling off of Keith and trying to diffuse whatever was building.

“It’s boring,” Bandor said. Keith felt his words like needles in his chest, his very fears spoken aloud and made real. “And it’s cheesy.”

“That’s not the ending,” Keith snaps, feeling that anger being directed towards something finally. Lance, Shiro, Coran – they all raise their eyebrows in surprise at the surety in Keith’s voice, but he doesn’t stop himself. Because he’s mad, damn it – he’s so angry he can’t stand it. There’s so much anger he can’t even feel the hurt that lies beneath it anymore, the wound completely eclipsed in a raging fiery storm. This story started as a delusion: it had to come crashing down into the real world sometime. “Why would the painter want to be with someone who traded him away so easily?”

He feels a hand on his shoulder, hears Shiro say, “ _Keith_ -” in warning: Shiro’s known Keith long enough to tell when something bad was coming. But it doesn’t matter because that fire he tried to keep at bay rages and spreads and in this moment he can’t even _imagine_ how that story could end ever well. Because it can’t: it can only end in tragedy and they were all fooling themselves to consider anything else could happen.

“Why would he want to be with someone who clearly cared so little for him,” He spat, feeling his anger seething and boiling beneath his skin. “Who used him as a distraction, then cast him aside and practically _laughed_ about it?”

Lance looked frozen to the spot, guilt clearly written on his face as he grew pale. But it didn’t matter because everyone else was busy watching Keith make a fool of himself.

Keith laughed cruelly, shrugging off Shiro’s hand that he hadn’t realised was still in place and gripping his shoulder _hard,_ not even noticing how the fingers had been digging in. “The scarfweaver takes advantage of people – why should someone like that get a happy ending?”

“Hey Keith.” It’s to everyone’s surprise when the one to cut in and stop the writer is Hunk. But the large man grips Keith’s arm and pulls him forwards. “Sorry guys,” Hunk apologises, hurrying away, “I need Keith to look over some music for the show. We’ll be back soon.”

As the two disappear, Bandor turns back to the stunned group deep in thought as he says, “I didn’t realise there was so much subtext in the story…”

Keith trips over his own feet as Hunk drags him through the crowd, not even have the wit to stop and tell Hunk to let go of him. That anger has reduced to a simmer and left him feeling cold and empty in it’s wake, limp as a ragdoll as Hunk dragged him through the corridors into the dressing room and away from the party.

The dressing room was just as daunting as before, only instead of it overflowing with boisterous noise it now was completely devoid of all of that energy. It was disconcerting, seeing something that should be so alive feel so dead.

“Okay, so what’s going on?” Hunk asks him, releasing his grip and crossing his arms across his broad chest.

“What are you talking about?” Keith asked, completely confused.

“You and Lance,” Hunk clarifies, giving Keith a hard look. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Keith huffs.

But Hunk sees right through him, simply asking once again, “What is going on?”

“I barely even know you,” Keith snaps at him, realising that no one was making him stay and receive whatever lecture Hunk was going to give him.

“No,” Hunk agrees, “But I know Lance. Something is very off with him and I think that something is you.” From anyone else Keith would probably feel threatened, but coming from Hunk the words were not menacing, just deeply concerned for his friend. “I’ve been hearing some rumours. Now, I don’t play into gossip, but if this is affecting my friend I need to know the truth.”

“What rumours?” Keith asks suspiciously.

“About you two,” Hunk says, voice dropping to a whisper as though someone were listening in, “Having an _affair.”_

_“What!?”_ Keith shouts, hearing the empty room swallow the noise. “It was just a kiss!” He splutters.

“You _kissed him?”_ Hunk gasped. Sure, he had heard the rumours, but he never thought they had any actual merit to them. “Keith, he’s engaged-”

“You think I don’t know that?” Keith snapped. “And it was him who kissed me, I had nothing to do with it!”

“You had a little to do with it,” Hunk hissed. “When did this happen – when you brought his jacket to him?”

“No, no,” Keith said, seeing Hunk’s perception of him quickly turning murky. “After I was helping you with the songs,” He stuttered, struggling to get the words out. “And he ran off. I-I saw him on my way out. It-it happened then.”

“That’s what that new song was about,” Hunk says, leaning back against a table heavily and running a hand down his face.

“Yeah – it was about him admitting how much he had enjoyed toying with me,” Keith growled, forcing his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers before he got angry all over again and ended up punching the innocent wall at his side. With the amount of writing he needed to get done, he really couldn’t afford a set of broken knuckles.

Hunk pauses with his hand running through his hair, “It was about w _hat?”_

“About him manipulating me,” Keith tells him like it’s obvious. “It’s what he does, right? How could I not see that? Why wouldn’t he use me after how he’s using Lotor? Hell, I bet he even made up that whole ‘Nyma’ story.”

Hunk looked shocked. “He _told you_ about Nyma?”

“He kind of had to,” Keith shrugged, “After we met her.”

“You _met her!?”_

“Will you stop screaming,” Keith said, trying to get the pianist to drop the volume before someone came back here thinking Keith was committing a murder.

“Sorry, sorry,” Hunk says at a far lower volume. “I just never…he _saw_ her? Like, saw her, talked to her, all that stuff?”

“Yeah.”

Hunk blows out a long slow breath, nodding to himself. “That explains a lot.”

“I beg to differ,” Keith grumbles.

“Oh right – just…look,” Hunk says, trying to get back to his original point. “I don’t know what exactly happened between you, or what he has been telling you, but this ‘manipulator’ view you’ve got of him is completely wrong Keith. Nyma…she was seriously bad news. It’s not my place to explain what happened, but trust me when I tell you that Lance was not the bad guy in that situation.”

“And Lotor?” Keith asks, raising an eyebrow, suspecting that Hunk wouldn’t be able to convince him to shift from his stance. “Lance told me everything: how he’s using Lotor for his money, that he’s just a means to an end. Sounds like using someone to me!”

Hunk looked to the ceiling, peering beyond as though to glimpse the heavens as he swore harshly under his breath. “That damn boy!” He raked another hand down his face and groaned, telling Keith from between his fingers with an exasperated voice, “That’s not the full story, Keith.”

“Oh yeah?” Keith said sceptically. “I doubt you could put a positive spin on that.”

“It’s not my place-” Hunk starts.

“ _Sure,”_ Keith scoffs. “Is this how he uses _you_ then? Gets you to clean up his messes so I can’t go telling the world of his true intentions?”

“That’s not it-”

“Of _course_ it isn’t,” He says. “Doesn’t want you going around spreading the lies he’s told you to get you under his thumb – what if he got caught out in his game?”

“ _Keith,”_ Hunk pled. “That’s not fair-”

“No,” Keith snapped. “What’s not fair is knowing better than letting people have a hold over you, yet letting it happen anyway. What’s not fair is someone doing _exactly_ what you thought they would, and then they get away with it. What’s not fair is me standing here yelling at _you_ when what I should be doing is marching out there,” He uncrosses his arms and points in the direction of the hall,” and telling him myself.” Keith’s chest heaves as he finishes speaking, frowning and daring Hunk to try and tell him otherwise.

Hunk looks to the ground for a moment, considering his next words, weighing the costs and rewards before sighing in defeat and raising his eyes. “Lance isn’t with Lotor so he can use his money.”

“But-” Keith tries to say but Hunk raises a hand to silence him, those warm brown eyes suddenly hard and foreboding.

“He’s not with Lotor so he can use his money for himself,” Hunk repeats firmly. “He’s with Lotor so he can save the club.”

Keith is struck dumb for a moment, mouth opening and closing uselessly for a moment, a dying fish gasping for air, before pathetically asking, “What?”

*****

After Keith’s outburst, Lotor had played off the incident as ‘a tortured artist needing to vent’. The group had laughed awkwardly before hastily disbanding, Lotor asking into Lance’s ear, “What was that all about?”

“Who knows,” He says, fear sitting cold in his belly from what Keith had said.

He and Lotor resume their mingling, but Lance can’t shake the dread sitting deep in his core, feeling like a time-bomb that would go off at any moment and ruin everything in sight. Lotor, Keith, Hunk, the club. His friends, his _family,_ reduced to ash and rubble in his wake. Nerves bubbled in his stomach, and he worried that at any given moment he was going to be sick, smiling kindly and subtly abandoning the drink Lotor had just given him on the table at their side.

“Lance,” Coran asked, “Where’s Hunk?”

“Oh shoot,” Lance said, raising a hand in shock. “Is it that time already?”

“What time?” Lotor asked him.

“Hunk and I were going to perform for the guests,” Lance said, ignoring Lotor telling him that this was supposed to be a party for _everyone._ “It was supposed to be a surprise,” He told his fiancé, “Get everyone excited about the show!”

“You don’t need to-”

“But I _wanted_ to,” Lance promised, taking Lotor’s hands in his. “If it could help the club, I’m going to do everything I can.”

Lotor gazed at him a moment before leaning forwards and capturing his lips with his own. “You’re so amazing,” He whispered.

Lance spluttered, pushing down, _down,_ on that dreadful fear and guilt and the forbidden memories of an impossible kiss- “I’m going to find Hunk,” he said, dropping Lotor’s hands and hurrying away from his fiancé.

*****

“ _What?”_

“How many times are you going to say ‘what’?” Hunk asked, feeling terrible for what he had already let slip.

“As many times as it takes to get an answer out of you,” Keith hisses. “What do you _mean?_ ”

Hunk sighs, scratching at his head and pulling on the hairs there. “I’m a terrible friend,” He says to himself with a shake of his head.

“Hunk!” Keith snaps.

“ _Fine_!” The pianist says: he opened this can of worms, he supposed he had no choice but to pour them out and deal with their squirming. “Lance is marrying Lotor to make sure the Café stays in business.”

“Carry on,” Keith prompted firmly, suspecting Hunk planned to stop there.

“Lotor used to be smitten with Lance: came to every show to watch him sing,” Hunk said, acting as though he was physically forcing himself to tell the story, pushing against each word to get it out. “Lance let him take him out to dinner a couple of times. Then Lotor popped the question, and Lance didn’t know what he should say.

“The club was in dire straits: not like right now, where we’re a little uncomfortable. The situation was _terrible_ : at any moment it could have all collapsed and the doors would have closed for good.”

Keith thought back to what Allura had told him about the club’s difficulties in the past, how Lotor had stepped in to help at just the right time.

“Lance hadn’t answered Lotor yet: he wasn’t ready for something so serious after Nyma. It had already been a year, but he was still so broken up about it. So he planned to tell Lotor no.

“Then Lotor subtly made Lance an offer,” Hunk told Keith, keeping his eye. “Basically, if Lance agreed to Lotor’s hand in marriage then Lotor would step in and give the club the help it needed. He would clear up any debt, give us the money not only to stay open, but draw in new business and get back on our feet.”

“So Lance marries Lotor,” Keith says slowly. “And Lotor keeps Lance in a job? I don’t buy it.”

“This isn’t just a job to Lance,” Hunk explained. “This is a home: we are Lance’s _family._ He found us when he had nothing, when he felt like he _was_ nothing. If I am being honest,” Hunk says, voice solemn, “Lance and I both know that if it weren’t for the club, Lance wouldn’t even _be_ here right now.”

The heavy atmosphere helps ground Keith from his hot-headed responses, sobering him and making him consider the situation from a different perspective. Keith could pretend to misunderstand what Hunk was alluding to, play dumb, but the tone of Hunk’s voice was so anguished there was only one reasonable way to hear those words.

“The club means _everything_ to him,” Hunk says. “Everything. And if all he had to do was give Lotor his future to save it, why _wouldn’t_ he do just that?”

“He doesn’t love him?” Keith doesn’t know why that’s the question he chooses to ask, but he finds himself asking it all the same.

“I’m just saying the situation isn’t all black and white,” Hunk says sadly. “Just…just talk to him. He’s not the monster he’s convinced you he is.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Keith says. Because what has truly changed? At the end of the day, Lance is still engaged and Keith is still delusional.

Hunk shrugs, “Suit yourself. But bear in mind that from this point on, you not understanding the situation is not an excuse for you to make him feel even worse about himself than he already does. Do you understand?”

Keith nods dumbly, his voice feeling frail. Despite what he had said of the pianist earlier, there was no doubt in his mind that those words were anything other than a threat.

“Good,” Hunk nodded, letting that menacing front drop off of him to allow his warm smile to return and glancing down at his watch. “I had better go: we’re going to put on some entertainment before the night ends. You want to come back in?”

“No thanks,” Keith says, sagging back against the wall and trying to process Hunk’s words. “I…I need a minute.”

Hunk chuckled to himself and shook his head. “He’s a complicated guy,” Hunk tells him with a fond smile, “But I promise you: if you can get through the baggage, Lance will be one of the best people you’ve ever let into your life.”

Hunk leaves Keith in the silence of the dressing room, making his exit and almost running smack bang into Lance in the hallway.

“Hunk!” Lance said, already grinning, “Finally! Time to go on buddy.”

Hunk glances back in the direction he had came in, giving Lance a heavy look he didn’t quite understand. “I think you’ve got something more important to deal with Lance.”

“What do you-” Lance starts to ask but is cut off as Hunk places a hand to his shoulder.

“I need you to head into the dressing room.”

“Why…?” Lance asks suspiciously, not sure what his flatmate is up to.

“Trust me,” Hunk smiles kindly. “You need to do this.”

“But the performance-”

“Shay and I have been trying some stuff out,” The pianist says, blushing rising to his cheeks at the mere mention of her name. “I’m sure she’d happily step in to provide some entertainment.”

Lance narrowed his eyes in suspicion, “What’s your game here? You casting me aside to get some extra time with your special lady?” He tries to land the joke with a light smirk, expecting Hunk to splutter and blush at his teasing words but Hunk’s face remains tense and serious, sparking concern in Lance’s gut.

“Just trust me,” Hunk told him, patting his shoulder before walking back in the direction of the hall.

Fear and curiosity were at odds with one another as Lance decided whether or not he was going to do as his friend asked, not noticing that even as he struggled to decide what to do his body was already moving towards the dressing room. He only really noticed he had been moving when he met Keith’s dark, dark eyes and skidded to a halt in the doorway.

The pair of them stared at each other, wide eyes and uneasy, the space between them simultaneously too much and too little all at once. They both opened their mouths stupidly and failed to speak, clearing their throats and fumbling with their hands.

“I’m sorry,” Keith managed to get out, breaking their eye contact and growing flustered. “I should go-”

“Why?” Lance asked, his voice croaking but managing to say the words all the same. “Why do you need to go?”

Keith sighed sadly, forcing himself to look back at the singer standing frozen in the doorway, “You _know_ why.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Lance says, finally moving to action and forcing himself to close the distance between the two.

“We clearly can’t be around one another,” Keith tried to explain, growing flustered over Lance all over again: was he never to get himself under control?

“Why?” Lance asked, scoffing, “Because we accidentally kissed? It’s not a big deal.”

“ _Clearly_ ,” Keith says under his breath, but Lance manages to catch it.

His eyebrow raises, “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just let it go Lance,” Keith snaps and steps away, “I’m leaving-”

“No you’re not.” They both feel trapped in time as Lance’s hand clamps down around Keith’s wrist, the grip hot as flames, holding tight to make sure Keith doesn’t take another step. _“Tell_ me.”

“If it meant nothing,” Keith says through grit teeth, feeling foolish, “Then you wouldn’t have written a whole song about how I got the wrong idea instead of just _telling me.”_

Lance blanched, “That’s not what it-”

“I got the message Lance,” Keith said. “The correct message, now Hunk informed me otherwise. I just…I need time to get my head screwed back on.”

Nerves in his gut: squirming, shredding at him. He gulps, telling him, “That song wasn’t about you Keith.” Keith looks sceptical so Lance continues to talk over whatever comment he was about to add, “Honest. It was about me being stupid and not thinking through the ramifications of my actions. I need to apologise to you about what I did – it wasn’t fair of me to kiss you and put you in this position.”

“ _You’re_ apologising?” Keith asked, no longer tensing against Lance’s grip. As soon as he relaxed Lance’s fingers loosened, his hand returning to his side.

“I am,” Lance nodded. “I’m so sorry – you’ve been such a good friend to me since we met. I just…I have a knack for ruining the good things that happen to me. And I’m sorry that you got caught up in that.”

“No Lance – you don’t need to apologise,” Keith told him.

Lance blinked in confusion. “I think I do Keith-”

“No, you don’t. I’m the one that owes _you_ an apology.”

“What?” Lance asked, before starting to chuckle, “How do you figure that?”

Keith clearly isn’t amused with his reaction, his face settling into a scowl that only makes Lance chuckle more. “I took advantage of you,” He says, that scowl firmly in place, “You weren’t okay and I was selfish-”

“ _I_ was the one that took advantage of _you_!” Lance said.

“No, _I_ was-”

“You’ve helped me so much-”

“I let myself imagine-”

“I wanted to-”

The pair halt in their ramblings, staring at one another in silence before bursting into laughter at their ridiculous argument over who owed whom an apology. As their laughter ceases Lance cocks his head to hear music from the hall drifting into the dressing room, Shay’s soft words difficult to make out from this far, but seeming to boom in volume compared to the silence between he and Keith.

‘ _Nothing feels like home.’_

“Hey Keith?” Lance says. He knows he shouldn’t ask more of Keith, but in the silence it feels like there’s so much unsaid between them and he can’t wallow in his thoughts of what that could be: in another time, another place... “Why can’t you finish your story?”

‘ _Trying to find my way back home to you.’_

Keith sighs, long and heavy, crossing his arms over his chest. The pair of them lean back against a table, their shoulders brushing one another. “I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “Everything seems so improbable.”

“Because the scarfweaver doesn’t deserve a happy ending?” Lance asks, ignoring how close his voice comes to cracking as he speaks.

“I’m sorry about that-” Keith tells him but Lance holds a hand up to stop the most recent apology.

“Don’t be sorry,” Lance says sadly. “I showed you the real me: I’m not offended that that was the conclusion you came to. You’re right: people who use others like that don’t deserve to end up happy.”

“That’s bullshit,” Keith says harshly, surprising Lance with its irritation. “Stop trying to convince the entire world that you’re a terrible person. Hunk told me the truth about what’s going on-”

“He _what_ -?”

“And the scarfweaver did what he could to help someone he cared about,” Keith talks over him. “That’s not a bad person in my book.”

“We’ll agree to disagree,” Lance says, disgruntled. “Hunk has his views, and I have mine. If he’s swayed you to his way of thinking there’s not much I can do.”

“He didn’t sway me so much as shed some more light on the situation,” Keith tells him with a pointed look.

“Maybe too much,” Lance sighs, He looks to Keith out the corner of his eye, “He thinks I’ve made some noble sacrifice and I’m too hard on myself, and I can see he’s convinced you of that too. But that’s not true.”

“And what _is_ true?”

_‘I’d rather be a lover than a fighter,’_

The words sit heavy on Lance’s tongue for a moment before allowing him to say, “I shouldn’t be here, Keith.”

“Where-?”

“ _Here,”_ He says, gesturing around them. “Anywhere. The only reason I’m alive is this club.”

_‘Cause all my life, I’ve been fighting.’_

Keith stutters over his words, thinking back on what Hunk had said about Lance likely not being here anymore if he hadn’t found the club. “You don’t know that-”

“No,” Lance says firmly, “I _do._ Do _not_ tell me I’m wrong on this Keith – if it wasn’t for this place I would be at the bottom of the Seine.”

_‘Never felt a feeling of comfort,’_

“When Nyma and I ended, I couldn’t take it,” Lance tells him, focused on getting these words out. He was sick and tired of people telling him that he was wrong about what he knew was true: he was determined to show Keith that he wasn’t just being dramatic for the sake of it. “I didn’t want to be here, so I walked until I found a bridge and decided I had to make it stop.”

_‘All this time I’ve been hiding.’_

“So I stood on the edge, watching the water swirl and churn below me. I didn’t even notice I had started singing: but Hunk did.”

_‘And I never had someone to call my own,’_

“He found me up there on his way home from the club, some random person that he didn’t even _know,_ and he talked me down. Took me to his home, fed me, helped me.”

_‘I’m so used to sharing,’_

“Got me a job on the bar at the club – even stuck his neck out and convinced Coran and Allura to give me a chance, listen to me sing.”

_‘Love only left me alone,’_

“Everyone within these four walls helped me – some nobody they owed nothing to!”

_‘But I’m at one with the silence,’_

“I wasn’t supposed to _have_ a future Keith,” Lance said, crossing his arms tight across his body. “Not a tomorrow, or a day after, or a next week – the _only_ reason I have a future waiting for me is because of this club. And I could _not_ lose it, not for anything.”

_‘I’m one with the silence.’_

“And yes: I wrestle with my conscience over that decision a lot of the time,” Lance nods to himself, uncrossing his arms and reaching down to grip the edge of the table they’re leaning against. “And I have a voice in the back of my head telling me that it’s all an excuse I tell myself to get away with marrying rich and using someone to make my life easier. But if I had the chance to go back, I would make the same choice. Every. Single. Time. So I can live with being a bad person, because at least it’s for a good reason.”

Keith feels like he needs to give Lance _something,_ something more than empty words of comfort. Because who was Keith to think that he could tell Lance whatever it was he needed to hear to make this all better? So instead Keith drops his hand and covers Lance’s fingers on the table edge, firmly gripping the warm digits with his own, hoping it gives him some form of comfort.

“I don’t want your pity, Keith,” Lance warns him with a sad voice.

“Then it’s a good thing you don’t have it,” Keith tells him. Lance chuckles and, even though it’s a forced noise, it still makes something stir and lift in Keith’s chest.

“And the worst part?” Lance says, feeling as though he had opened up the floodgates and feeling the need to completely clear the slate of his secrets. “Is that I _wanted_ to kiss you, Keith. Before that moment, and after. I wanted to kiss you when you held me as I cried in my bedroom, when I took your hand and taught you to dance. Hell, even when I first saw you sitting at the bar with a sour face. My thoughts when I first saw you were who could look this grumpy at a birthday party, and how many kisses would it take to wipe that look clean off your face?”

“Wha-?” But Keith can’t get any further because his voice dies in his dry throat.

“And after all that, I kiss you after I have a _breakdown,”_ Lance says with a disappointed shake of his head. “And ruin everything. The only things I needed to do were not betray my fiancé and not destroy each and every good thing that happens to me. And with one stupid move I manage to do _both_ -”

The table scrapes loudly against the floor as Keith _moves:_ he can’t take it any longer, these raw and aching words. He can’t take the knowledge that all this time his delusion was more real than he gave it credit for. He had held himself back for so long, felt stupid and guilty and twisted over each one of their interactions because he was reading too far into it, he was being too sensitive, too naïve. But now those holdings were snapping: each confessing word from Lance’s mouth is too much, and he had waited too long, fought against the urge – the _need_ – for too long, far too long-

The table scrapes as Keith presses himself against Lance, curling his fingers into Lance’s shirt and kissing him like he had been thinking about non-stop these past few weeks since they had met. Lance stumbles for balance as the table slides away from the small of his back, his hands gripping tightly to Keith’s shoulders as his brain catches up to what is going on. And once he works this out his own restraints break and he kisses back, as desperately as Keith is, the two kissing the other with a bruising force but unable to stop themselves. Because the dam was crumbling: the forced distance they had each tried to keep, everything they had held back, was running loose and free under the guise of moving lips and wandering hands. They gripped fiercely at one another, legs tangling, stumbling and pushing and pulling, unable to get close enough after so long forcing themselves apart.

They leave the party and hurry across the street to Lance’s flat. Neither of them takes the time to worry if someone would notice them both missing or to consider how suspicious their disappearance looks. Because it’s too late to think of such things: the only things that exist in this moment are Keith’s lips pressing against Lance’s, Lance’s hands against Keith’s chest as he undoes the buttons of his shirt and practically rips the fabric off of him, Keith’s gasp as his back hits the sheets of Lance’s bed before he pulls the singer down after him.

Because they had been forcing themselves to be alone for far too long, and neither one of them could stand the aching cold another second longer. Paris could burn down this very moment and the flames would dull and dwindle against the feeling that finally, after all this time, they had found something in each other they could consider as ‘ _home’_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this bad boy in 2 days while I was balancing studying!! It took hold of me and _demanded_ it be written, and honestly who can blame it?  
> Aren't you glad I'm not going to make you wait 2 weeks for a new chapter? 
> 
> So fun fact, because one song isn't enough for this piece: the song Lance was singing the night Hunk found him was 'La Vie En Rose'. It's one of my favourite songs that captures the feeling of nostalgia and just makes my heart _melt_. For Lance it's a song of bittersweet longing, of how the world feels when someone loves you and you love them: of wishing he could get back what it is he has lost. If his world is going to end, he wants to go out with the idea of being completely and utterly loved filling him, drowning out all other thoughts.  
> My personal favourite version, and the version I imagine Lance adoring, is Edith Piaf's [original version.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kFzViYkZAz4)  
> However some other absolutely phenomenal versions I love are [Louis Armstrong's,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8IJzYAda1wA) trumpet-central cover, [Cristin Milioti's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6gdF8ynJDo) version from How I Met Your Mother, and [Patricia Kaas'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Wo3uPCyJ3o) orchestral arrangement that is utterly mind-blowing (listen with headphones on, thank me later).  
> Basically Lance and I both love La Vie En Rose and want to share that passion with you all.  
> See you all next week! x


	9. Straight Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Choices made in the dark of night are viewed in the light of day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That time of the week again!  
> We are officially halfway through this thing, and I can't thank you enough for your comments and kudos along the way - they seriously keep me going when I spin out and start telling myself this is terrible.  
> This week's chapter features Postmodern Jukebox's version of 'Straight Up', found [here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6AgfK1nEb_8) This song is so fun and one of my favourites seen in this fanfic!

The warmth of sharing a bed with another body is a foreign experience to Keith, but one he found himself greatly appreciating. It was comforting, the warmth of someone else seeping into him, their legs twisted together, the weight of a head resting against his bicep, the ticklish breaths brushing against his bare chest as Lance continued to sleep. He was surprised to find that, while he generally recoiled from human contact, in this case he wanted to press even closer, regardless of the fact that they were already skin to skin.

The night before is a blur of colour and emotion, of the pressure of lips on his own: of a hand held firm in his as they escaped to Lance’s apartment. There was no logical thinking and Keith closed his eyes against the pale light of the morning pressing against the hastily closed curtains, trying to remain in this timeless moment where they didn’t need to ask themselves the big questions or have to deal with the even bigger answers. It was safe, hiding in this ignorance.

So he kept as still as possible, trying to memorise the feeling of Lance’s head against his chest, how he sounded when he slept, eliciting a soft mumble under his breath in sleep before pressing his face into Keith’s arm. As always the singer was beautiful, his face soft and relaxed in sleep. No forced masks to hide behind, no worries or concerns. Just…Lance, having the chance to lean against someone else, his hand lightly curled near his face, directly over Keith’s pounding heart.

Could he feel it, how strongly it beat against the bone of Keith’s ribs? With each rise and fall of their chests it battered against its prison, thrashing and desperate to break free and nestle in the curl of Lance’s palm. Because, surely, that’s where it truly belonged. Everything was confusing and blinding and complicated right now, but what kept Keith safe in this fog of the unknown was the fact that shone like the sun against the dizzying murk: this felt right. Whatever this was, whatever else happened, this felt _right._ His heart didn’t – _couldn’t –_ belong to him ever again: truly, it never had. All these years he had felt its beating in his chest, and never known up until this moment that the beating only existed to bring him to Lance, to open him up and leave him raw and vulnerable to this one person. Everything else didn’t matter: beyond this bed where he lay with his limbs tangled with another’s, it didn’t matter.

He didn’t sleep a wink, almost afraid to as though falling asleep would break this delusion and he would wake up in his own, empty bed having dreamt the entire thing. Because whatever happened after, whatever pain was coming, all he wanted was to know that this was _real._

Lance’s throat rumbles as he stirs, his hand rising to rub at his eyes and leaving the vacant stretch of Keith’s skin where it had rested impossibly cold, his heart seeming to press even harder against his ribcage with its loss.

“Let me guess, I drank too much?” Lance’s voice, rough and heavy with sleep, was like music to Keith’s ears, more beautiful than any performance Keith had heard from the singer before.

He hums his response, not quite ready to break the moment _just yet-_

“Are we in _my_ bed?” Lance asks, tugging at the edge of the covers and peering at them with bleary eyes. “Why did we-?” He turns his head to look up at Keith and it’s here he freezes, recognition taking a moment to dawn on him before his mouth drops open, finally waking up enough to remember what they had done – what they had done _twice-!_

Keith felt grief as the moment shattered: they had reached the moment’s end and he already grieved its loss, just wishing it could have lasted one minute more-

“Keith!?”

He looked away from Lance’s face guiltily, raising a hand to rub at his chin, his palm pressing against his lips as though he needed to physically barricade them against what he might say. His other hand still rested against the muscle of Lance’s back, but he wasn’t quite ready to move it yet. He had no idea what to say: he wasn’t good at this stuff, had never done something like this before.

Which was okay: Lance was verbally panicking enough for the both of them, hissing in hushed tones lest the confession of guilt pass through the walls. “What the-? What are we-? What _did_ we-? We _didn’t!_ We didn’t actually– did we? Keith, _did we-!?”_

“We did,” He confirms mournfully, only feeling guiltier as he fails to summon up adequate remorse for what he has done.

“Oh god,” Lance said, only now seeming to realise how closely he was pressed against Keith, his upper body pressed against Keith’s chest as he tried to make sense of the situation before recoiling, putting the safety of space between them. “Oh _god –_ oh GOD! What have we done?”

“Lance-” Keith said gently, tried to reach for him, but Lance backed away to the edge of the bed as far as he could get from him without standing. Because right now, the blanket was helping them hide a whole other multitude of sins, and while they no longer should have a reason to feel bashful with one another, seeing each other naked in the harsh light of day was too real a step for them to take. So they hid in the bed, keeping the stretch of fabric between them to wall them off from one another.

“It’s over,” Lance said in disbelief, shaking his head and talking to himself. “It’s over – I’ve ruined it. Of _course_ I’ve ruined it. It’s over, it’s all over-”

“Breathe,” Keith said unhelpfully, hand hovering in the space between them but too unsure to close the distance and let himself comfort Lance. “Breathe Lance, it’s okay-”

“It is most certainly _not_ okay!” Lance snapped, running fingers through hair that was already in disarray from sleep and…other activities. “Christ Keith, how can you tell me it’s okay? Look at the situation we’re in!”

“It’s what people say!” He says, never having realised just how empty those words were before.

“Well _people_ also don’t go around sleeping with people who are _not their fiances!_ Oh jesus, jesus Christ-” Lance’s breath was growing short, eyes growing wide and focusing on nothing in particular. His chest heaved and his fingers wound tight into the bed covers, as his panicked babbling dropped from his mouth, “Shit, shit, _shit._ Oh god-” His voice warbled and his words stuttered as his need to get the words out warred with a desperate appeal for oxygen. He was trembling, lost to the storm of confusion and panic and guilt, guilt, _guilt-!_

Keith was speaking to him but Lance didn’t hear a word, drowning, lungs useless against the terrified thumping of his heart. It was beating too hard, was too large as it swelled with the clamour of emotion, taking up all the room in his chest. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t-

Burning hands on his own, pulling them away from where they’re digging into his own arms, clawing deep enough to draw small beads of blood. A firm grip, holding him steady as he shivered and trembled, as the world roared and spun around him. He had, he-

There was something soothing seeping in, a breath of respite in the storm. A melody, hummed notes that stood stark against the howling noise in his head, something he could focus on.

Keith couldn’t feel embarrassed as he hummed an almost-forgotten memory: usually he would be mortified, swear that even at knifepoint he wouldn’t do such a thing. But the sound of heaving gasps that erupted from Lance’s chest as he tried to draw in breath, as he tried to say the words in his head, it was heart-breaking and Keith needed to do _something_. His throat was parched as he forced the notes out, his vocal chords scratching against one another in an almost painful manner. But it didn’t matter because Lance’s eyes had snapped to his own, searching for something in him as those trembling hands returned the force of his grip. Keith kept humming, coaxing Lance back from whatever edge he had gone too, relief swelling in his chest as Lance managed take in a breath without the painful gasping. He kept humming as he took another breath, and another, each time filling his lungs a little bit more, managing to push back what had been overwhelming him. And even then Keith still hummed. He hummed right up until the music ran out, the final notes escaping his throat, and the silence blossomed between them again.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” Lance croaked, blinking past the tears that were fogging his vision.

“Are you okay?” Keith asked.

“I…I don’t know.”

And Lance was truthful as he said those words. Because strangely, in the eye of the storm he had managed to ward off, at the very centre of it all – he _was_ okay. He was more than okay: for the first time in a long time he felt like he had made it home. In this bed, with Keith holding tightly to his hands to stop his trembling, he felt safe. And that feeling was _not_ okay. He could not commit such a foul act of betrayal and feel _okay._ He had no right to feel okay, he didn’t _deserve_ to feel okay! And the fact that a small part of him was okay only seemed to make the other part scream that much louder, the contrast only making him that much more disgusted with himself.

“I’m so sorry-” “This was a mistake-”

They both stopped as they realised the other had begun speaking, each cutting themselves off.

“You’re sorry?” Keith asked.

“It was a mistake?” Lance repeated, knowing the words to be true but feeling their sharp impact all the same.

Keith raised a brow, “Why are you sorry?”

Lance looks torn as he says, “I used you – _again.”_

“You didn’t-”

“I _did_ Keith, remember? I seemingly enjoy ruining my life over and over, and now I’ve used you to do just that-”

“I’m an adult, capable of making my own terrible decisions,” Keith tells him, trying to lighten the mood but noting his failure as worry lines only seemed to increase on Lance’s face.

“You’re _not_ though,” Lance said sadly, looking like he was holding the world on his shoulders. “You said so yourself – I manipulate people. Neither of us should be here, but oops! Looks like I-”

“Don’t start singing,” Keith tells him, feeling the corner of his mouth trying to lift into a wry smile.

“It’s true though,” Lance scowls, only then noticing that they were still clinging to one another’s hands, their faces drawn dangerously close together. He swallowed with difficulty, but despite his better judgement he didn’t want to move away. “ _You_ said this was a mistake – a mistake I made you commit!”

“That’s not what I meant-”

“What else could you mean?” Lance asked him, wishing not for the first time that he could just fall into the dark depths of Keith’s eyes. “This shouldn’t have happened-”

“It _shouldn’t_ have happened,” Keith agreed, surprising Lance. “Because I shouldn’t have kissed you. All of this, it was my mistake.”

“Oh don’t go being the hero and taking all the blame,” Lance rolls his eyes. “I literally kissed you last _week._ If anything, I triggered this whole series of events.”

“ _I_ was the one that jumped on _you_ last night, remember?” Keith starts to scowl, his natural stubbornness rearing its head and clashing against Lance’s.

“And who’s bed did we end up in?” Lance hissed.

“Well-” Keith spluttered, too proud to lose the argument that had completely gone off the rails, “Well who’s the one that’s got a hickey on their neck, huh? That seems like a pretty terrible thing for me to do-”

Keith stops himself as he sees Lance’s eyes shift from his face for just a moment, snapping back to looking at him with shock, nibbling his lip to keep quiet. Keith feels genuine fear in his gut as he asks, “What…?”

“No, you’re right,” Lance abated, snatching his hands away from Keith in a mild panic and giggling nervously. “You gave me a hickey, that’s terrible, what an awful thing for you to do.”

“Lance…?”

He looked dramatically sorrowful as he begs, “Don’t be mad…”

Keith gasps, hand flying to cover the pale skin of his neck. “You _didn’t._ ”

“You gave me one!” Lance tries to defend. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“Great,” Keith groaned, burying his face in his hands. “So how do we explain _both_ of us turning up to the club with a hickey on our necks?”

“Umm…” Lance says uncertainly.

Keith casts him a look through his fingers, “What’s ‘ _um_ ’?”

“It’s nothing really…” Lance plucks at the edge of his blanket, cheeks beet red.

“Lance-”

“Can we agree that you gave me one first?”

“ _Lance-!_ ”

“They’ll go away!”

“ _THEY?!”_

“I didn’t mean to-”

“What did you do?” Keith practically screamed, trying to bring his volume down lest Hunk hear: the last thing he needed right now was for the singer to burst in to see what all the commotion was about.

“They’re _teeny_ ,” Lance says, focusing entirely on pulling at a loose piece of thread.

“How many _are_ there?” Keith asked, entirely afraid of the answer because he was pretty sure the answer wasn’t going to be _none._

“Just…just three…”

“Three?!”

“Will you _stop_ screaming,” Lance begged, fanning his hands towards Keith in a shushing motion.

“You gave me _three-”_

“You gave me one first!”

“So you return the favour _threefold?_ Jeez – remind me never to get on your bad side!”

“They really are very small,” Lance says, reaching out without thought and playing connect-the-dots between the bruises. “And they’re low enough that no one would see when you’ve got a shirt on.”

_“I’ll_ know – _you’ll_ know!”

Lance’s cheeks weren’t anywhere near calming down, the trio of purple bruises only making him remember the night before, how he and Keith had fit together like puzzle pieces. Over the years he had slept with more people than he cared to remember, and not _once_ had it felt like that. Not with Lotor, not even with Nyma…

“I know that this was a mistake,” Lance says slowly, meeting Keith’s eye. His fingertips are still outstretched, still barely tracing Keith’s skin, but they both decide to ignore it. “But I wish it wasn’t,” He sighs sadly, surprised that he actually allows himself to admit it. He doesn’t want to sit here on the edge of the bed, only allowing himself these tracing touches. He wants to stay beneath the covers in Keith’s arms and not have to think about just how _wrong_ everything was.

Keith looks torn between what he wants to say and what he _should_ say. He wants Lance to want him: he wants this to be real, this moment, where they only have to think about each other and not the implications from the rest of the world. He gently takes Lance’s hand, raising it to his mouth in a now-familiar move and placing his lips against it with a soft kiss, feeling immeasurably sad as he asks, “So what do you want to do?”

Lance huffs, taking his hand from Keith and settling it in his lap. “I want…” He swallows with difficulty: whatever words he says will bring that world - a new way of being - into reality. His arms come to hold himself, resting above the red crescent-moons left from his nails. He closes his eyes against himself, against whatever reaction Keith may have, as he says, “I want to save the club. I want to honour my agreement.”

Keith nods, trying to keep his disappointment to himself. “Then that’s what you should do.”

“I _do_ love Lotor,” Lance continues, trying to convince Keith as much as himself. “He’s fantastic: he takes care of me, he worries after me, makes sure I’m okay…”

_But is he a partner, or a caretaker?_

Lance pushes down on the intrusive thoughts in his mind, focusing on the sense of security he gets when he’s with Lotor. Which, after everything he had been through, is a welcome feeling: _especially_ because everything right now seems to be in freefall, leaving him dizzy and nauseous.

“He seems like a good man,” Keith soothingly tells the singer. This isn’t his decision to make, and he refuses to try and sway Lance’s way of thinking no matter how badly he wants to try. He doesn’t want to convince someone to love him, cloud their judgement with his words for them to realise the mistake they had made because of him later down the line.

“He _is_ ,” Lance nods, his voice solemn. “He would do anything for me.”

The same promise is on the tip of Keith’s tongue – ‘ _So would I, if you would have me.’_ But he can’t say it, he can’t allow the words to take form. Because he may think he would do anything for Lance, but he _knows_ he can’t give him everything the Duke can. Lance deserved more in life than a want-to-be writer who lives his life in the shadows. Keith is no stranger to watching on from the side lines and envying what other people have: this time would be no different.

“How did you do it?” Lance asks, out of the blue. Keith had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts he hadn’t noticed Lance doing the same thing.

“Do what?”

“The show: the scarfweaver, and the Prince. How did you work out my relationship with Lotor?” Lance asks him, almost afraid to know the answer.

It’s the first time that Keith takes a look at his writing and truly notices the similarities. He had always noted that the story was a convoluted telling of how he felt being around Lance, but it was almost scary how closely it seemed to resemble the real life situation. “I said I’ve always been good at reading people,” Keith weakly offers, “I guess I was just better at it than I even knew?”

The corner of Lance’s mouth quirks up at that, “Quite the superpower.”

“I think…I think I should go,” Keith says, echoing the words Lance had said after the last time they had spent time in his bedroom, another time when too much had been shared between the pair of them.

“That’s probably best,” Lance says. Keith ignores the disappointment in his gut at those words: a small part of him had hoped Lance would ask him to stay, but he knew that was only a fantasy. The singer politely averted his eyes as Keith left the bed and collected his things, tugging the clothes on as quickly as he could, combing his hair with his fingers and tucking locks behind his ears.

He’s just about to leave when Lance speaks up, “We can still be friends, right?” He says weakly.

Keith has to steel himself before turning around, donning a mask of indifference as he faces their new world. “I think work acquaintances would be…safer,” He says, surely imagining the disappointment on Lance’s face.

“I guess that would be for the best,” Lance nods, taking a deep breath before extending his hand. “Good day, Mr Kogane.”

Keith wishes he could smile at the proposed exchange, but the weight in his chest is too heavy, his mask fixed firmly in place. But he indulges a small part of himself to reach forwards and shake Lance’s hand with a firm grasp, nodding his head and telling him, “Goodbye, Mr McClain.”

Keith leaves after those words, slipping from the apartment and closing the door behind him as quietly as possible. In the hallway he breathes a heavy sigh and leans his back against the wood of the door, relying on it to keep him standing. He refuses to let that mask slip, to let the disappointment swell and drag him under. He had made a terrible decision and slept with an engaged man: this was a new low for him but he had brought it upon himself. He just needed a minute to adjust to the new normal.

He didn’t hear the soft footsteps from beyond the door, the singer creeping across the living room and grasping at the doorknob. Lance breathes a heavy sigh, trying to ignore his head, wishing he could open the door and take after Keith: he would surely only be a couple of flights down by now. He would open the door and lean over the banister and proclaim his true thoughts, his true feelings, shouting them into the echoing staircase. Keith would pause and turn, meeting his gaze from the floor below as he promised…promised…?

The fantasy stutters at those words, for he has no idea what he could promise. His hand falls from the doorknob, never having turned it, and he stares numbly at the door, wishing that Keith would come back and break through the barrier he was letting himself hide behind.

But the writer was beyond the wood, building his own walls in defence, unaware of the singer at war with himself a doorway away.

It may be selfish, or selfless, but either way they both decide to keep their mouths shut.

*****

Walking into the club he feels perverted, like walking into a church after a night of sinning - which is exactly what he had been doing. Lance ducks his head to hide blushing cheeks, hastily making his way to his table and glancing at himself in the mirror.

He feels exhausted but surprisingly he looks perfectly rested, those persistent dark bags of his seeming to have disappeared overnight. He didn’t deserve to look so normal, felt as though he should have woken up with ‘SLUT’ permanently written across his forehead in stark red ink so everyone would know.

He angles his head slightly, subtly glancing to the spot where he knew a hickey was hidden beneath an expertly applied layer of foundation. Even in the sharp light of his dressing table he can’t see the blemish and he breathes a sigh of relief, hoping he can keep his betrayal so easily hidden.

“Mon trésor!”

The words stop him cold, clearly seeing his face twist in the mirror from relief into strained anxiety. His head shoots up and there he sees Lotor striding towards him, arms outstretched and grinning widely.

What is Lotor doing here – does he know? Has he worked out what happened, has he been caught in the act? Lance glances at his face again briefly, panicked that red writing would have appeared on his skin with his fiancé’s arrival.

_Stay calm, stay calm…_

_“_ H-hey,” He croaks in greeting, giving a small wave.

“My my, aren’t we late?” Lotor teases, grasping Lance’s shoulders and placing a kiss to his cheek. Lance feels his chin duck down, almost turtling into his shirt, afraid of Lotor catching sight of the hidden blemish. “Drink too much?”

“You know me so well,” He forces out a laugh.

Lotor smirks. “Hunk told me you were feeling unwell and went home – perhaps one glass of wine too many?”

“Perhaps,” He echoes with a nod, his mouth feeling parched in a way that had nothing to do with the previous night’s drinking. “What- what are you doing here?”

Lotor raises an eyebrow. “I’m helping tidy up, after last night. We were _both_ supposed to help, remember?”

“Oh, yeah!” Lance sighs in relief, before his eyes widen. “Oh my – I’m so sorry I abandoned you to clean.”

“It is truly a heinous thing you have done,” Lotor nods, thinking the guilt on Lance’s face is a tad over the top but not pointing it out to his dramatic fiancé. “Suppose you’ll just need to make it up to me.”

Lance feels his heart pitching and jumping at each of Lotor’s words, reading far too deeply into their meanings. “G-got anything in mind?” He asks as casually as he can, ignoring the faltering in his words.

“Hmm…” Lotor rumbles. He circles his arms around Lance, holding him against his body with a light but firm hand at the small of his back. Lance is pressed flush with him, unable to look at anything other than Lotor’s eyes boring down into his own. He instantly feels panicked, feels trapped against this broad chest, but he forces the feelings down as he battles to keep his face relaxed. “How about…you sing for me tonight? A song you wrote for me, every word my own.”

“That’s- that’s all?” Lance asks, feeling as though Lotor should request an awful lot more of him.

“That’s all,” He grins carnally. “I want to see you on that stage with the whole room watching you, knowing that each and every word is for me.”

Lance is surprised as he flicks through his internal repertoire to find there is a distinct lack of songs he had written about Lotor: there’s very few to choose from. “Any particular requests?”

“Straight Up?” Lotor asks him, the song on the tip of his tongue. “I loved hearing you question yourself about me so much, only to find that I truly am the only man for you.”

The guilt coils and strikes, nausea rising in Lance’s throat. “I would need to see – it’s so much better with Allura-”

“Allura!” Lotor shouts, his commanding voice carrying easily through the chaos of the dressing room.

Her head pops up from behind Lance’s mirror, having climbed on a chair to seek whomever had called for her. She takes in the pair of them embracing and grins. “You rang?”

“How do you feel about us adding Straight Up into the line-up tonight?” Lotor asks her. “Your feet are a mastery with that tune.”

“Oh, you flatter me,” She drawls, giving the pair a wink. “I don’t see why not – I haven’t had a chance to break out the tap shoes out for a while!”

“If it’s too much trouble-” Lance starts, liking the situation less and less as time goes on.

“Not at all,” Allura promises. “Anything for your dear Duke.”

Lotor smiles, pleased he’s gotten his own way as Allura dips back down out of view. “Excellent – I’ll speak to Coran about reserving my usual table.”

“The whole table?” Lance asks shakily.

“A few of my friends wish to attend this evening,” Lotor tells him, only piling on the pressure. “They clearly didn’t get their fill last night, already clamouring back for more.” Lotor raises his hand behind Lance, eyeing his watch over his shoulder. “I had better get going – I have some business to conclude before tonight.” A quick kiss against Lance’s lips, too short for Lotor to notice Lance’s lack of enthusiasm, before releasing his hold on the singer and turning to go. “I’ll see you tonight – front row!”

“See you tonight,” Lance says, concerned by how hollow his voice sounded.

He gave himself a mental and physical shake, slapping colour into his cheeks and leaning to look at himself critically in his mirror.

This had to stop: he had to snap out of this headspace. Yes, he had made yet another terrible decision. But this had to be a secret he could keep to himself: the livelihood of everyone he cared about depended on it. It was immoral to keep silent, but what would telling Lotor achieve? He could cancel Keith’s show, the show that the club desperately needed if it were to ever to repay Lotor’s generosity. He had promised his future to this man with a smile on his face and a sadness in his heart: what was one more lie? The guilt he felt should be punishment enough: he felt it eating him alive, that he had betrayed someone who had only showed him kindness and generosity. The world didn’t need to know of his latest failure.

He let himself scowl for a moment before searching down deep, dredging up the energy to apply his mask once more. No more moping around, letting passion and lust dictate his actions: he had to return to what he had promised to be for Lotor. Keith was…he was a mistake: the writer had said as much that morning. And Lance hadn’t worked on this persona for so long only to throw it away at the first big slip up.

He was going to pull himself together. He was going to push the guilt down, and he was going to carry on as normal.

No more mistakes.

*****

Walking into the club with this new secret made Keith feel paranoid. Like he was going to trip and the truth would fall out of his mouth, or someone would see right through him and be able to watch each and every thing he and Lance had done.

He was terrified to even open his mouth, which was a problem as actors ran through their lines on the stage. They kept looking to him for feedback on their performance, what they needed to work on, but he was too afraid to do more than stiffly nod his approval.

“Keith? Keith!”

He blinked rapidly, turning to Coran scrutinising him. Coran, who had been speaking to him for a couple of minutes now and to whom he hadn’t even acknowledged. “Hmm?” He said dumbly, trying to shake himself back into the moment.

Lance and Shiro were watching them from the stage, waiting on whatever feedback Coran had been suggesting before continuing with the scene.

“As I was _saying,”_ The club owner reiterated, “I think the interactions between the scarfweaver and the Prince should be a bit more strained. I know we don’t have an ending yet, but common sense rules that these two aren’t going to live happily ever after – we should lay the groundwork for that.”

“They might,” Keith said quickly. He didn’t want this show turning into a big passive-aggressive comment on the choices that Lance had made and that Keith totally and completely respected. “We don’t know that the two couldn’t be perfectly happy together.”

“Well, you really _should_ know that,” Coran says with exasperation.

Lance is watching Keith carefully from the stage, shooting him daggers in a bid to get him to shut his mouth. Keith does just that, feeling his breath still in his chest while Lance’s eyes remain trained on him.

“Maybe we should take a break?” Shiro suggested.

“We don’t have _time_ ,” Coran said with a shake of his head. “It’s almost the end of the day as it is – we need to finish up soon to get ready for tonight’s show-”

Loud, obnoxious laugher has all of them looking over their shoulders, surprised to find a group of suit-clad gentlemen clustering around the bar, one snapping his fingers for Pidge’s attention as she was trying to stock up for the evening.

“Coran!” Lotor calls across the room, “I hope you don’t mind we’re a bit early!”

Coran clearly does mind, his moustache practically _bristling,_ but he takes the Duke’s sudden appearance in his stride. “We’re done for today,” Coran tells Shiro and Lance, dismissing them. He turns to Keith, a sad look on his face, “Keith, I believe in you. I believe in your capabilities, and your skills.” He reaches a hand forward, placing it on Keith’s shoulder. “ _Please_ do the same for yourself. I know you have the perfect ending – I trust you can just find it.”

Coran leaves him alone at the table as he strides across the room to greet Lotor and his guests, another chorus of laughter and cheers at his arrival.

Guilt is coming from so many directions in Keith’s gut he can’t even distinguish their source anymore. He’s too full, feels like he wants to vomit or sleep or drink himself into oblivion, or perhaps all three. Instead he gathers his things, needing to distance himself from the club and a certain singer who is _still_ watching him from the stage.

Lance opens his mouth, hand raised as though he could reach Keith across the distance between them, “Keith-”

“And here he is, my latest find!”

The blood chills in Keith’s veins at the voice, oh so close, turning with a strained expression to take in Lotor and his cohort standing behind him, the Duke gesturing to him. He opens his mouth in surprise as the firm hand of the Duke lands on his shoulder, keeping him pinned in place.

“Soon to be the most renowned playwright in Paris, Mr…Mr…”

Lotor fumbles, but Keith supplies his last name with a quiet voice, “Kogane.”

“Yes, yes,” Lotor waves off his help as though he had never needed it. “Monsieur Kogane. The writer who came from nothing, from _dirt,_ and who will reach great heights previously unknown to us all. And all because I gave him a chance.”

“I-I’m very grateful, Duke Galran,” Keith says, slipping his shoulder from beneath Lotor’s grasp and rising to stand. He keeps his supplies held against his chest as though they could protect him, another layer to mask the truth pounding in his chest. “You’re a great man,” He tells him, feeling slimy as he does so but noticing how the compliments pleased the Duke.

“Nonsense,” He waves him off, though they both know he doesn’t mean his words.

Lance can’t watch any more: he had been unable to look away from his fiancé and the man he had slept with the night before talking with one another, both forcing him to remember that the other was a real person with real feelings that he had hurt. But what finally made him leave was how Lotor fawned over Keith, showing him off like his newest, shiniest trinket to all his friends. He couldn’t watch Lotor treat the sweet writer like an object he had bought and repurposed, so he left.

He was afraid, feeling like as soon as his back was turned – as soon as he stopped watching – the secret would be out and spread through his life like a virus, polluting everything it touched. But he didn’t want to watch as every wonderful aspect that made Keith _Keith_ was condensed down into something Lotor used to make himself look good to a group of people that shouldn’t matter.

When he sat down at his dressing table, reaching for make-up to fortify the mask he was struggling to keep in place, he had no idea that Keith still hadn’t managed to dismiss himself from the group. Lotor kept a firm arm around his shoulders, talking him up to his friends and inviting them to ask him all kinds of questions: how poor had he grown up, was he an _orphan,_ were the painter and the Prince two sides of the same person: the lowly peasant he was and the debonair lord he wished himself to be?

It all happened so fast, he wasn’t sure when he had been guided into sitting with the group, chatting loudly amongst themselves as patrons and customers began to fill the halls for the evening’s show. It was busy, busier than usual due to the club staying closed the previous night.

It was with a sinking feeling that he came to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be escaping anytime soon as the lights dimmed and Coran introduced the evening’s show, the Duke’s presence heavy as steel bars, waving off any excuse Keith tries to make to excuse himself. He felt uncomfortable as the first act was introduced and the men at the table continued to talk amongst themselves, Keith feeling the looks of irritation from the patrons sitting around them. He wanted to sink into the floor so badly, feeling nauseous amongst these men who stank of privilege and liberally-applied cologne.

It was only when the ‘Songbird of the Carrousel’ was announced that the group finally dismissed their conversation, bursting into obnoxious ‘whoops’ and cheers as the curtain opened to reveal Lance wearing his patented smirk, casting a teasing look to his noisy patrons.

“My my,” He says flirtatiously, “Did you miss me that much?” Lance feels his mask slip momentarily as he notices Keith sitting at the table, right next to Lotor, but he’s a professional and he shakes it off, donning his stage persona. “How cute,” he drawls, giving Lotor’s group a sultry wink.

Lance is clad in a dark blue dress, short to accent his long legs. Towards the hem there are layers of black fringe, swaying with each of Lance’s movements so that each little move draws the eye. He wears a dark blue headband across his forehead, from the side of which three wispy black feathers protrude.

“Tonight’s first song is dedicated to a very special man in my life,” Lance grins, pausing as he waits for the almost-rehearsed reaction from Lotor’s group. Amongst the noise Keith feels himself shrinking smaller and smaller, hoping beyond hope that he would disappear completely and no longer be stuck at the table. “None of us would be here without him – let’s give him a hand, ladies and gentlemen, Duke Lotor Galran!”

Lance waits patiently as the round of applause rattles off, watching Lotor parade as humble as he acknowledges the attention. Once the applause quietens Lance gives the signal and Allura appears from the side of the stage and sets her tap shoes against the hard surface of the stage, the noise piercing through the crowd and drawing quiet as the band bursts in.

_‘Lost in a dream_

_I don’t know which way to go._

_Now if you are all that you seem,_

_Then maybe I’m moving way too slow.’_

As he sings Allura begins her dance routine, the band’s percussion no longer in control as her feet set the speed of the piece. Her outfit is similar to Lance’s, only the colours are inverted so she is mostly clad in black with blue fringe. As she dances her character draws close to Lance but always remains out of touch, Lance singing the lyrics as though to her instead of the audience.

_‘Straight up_

_Now tell me, do you really want to love me forever?_

_Or am I caught in a hit-and-run?’_

Lance lets himself grin, loving the energy on the stage between him and Allura. He forgot just how fun this piece could be, how much life was in it between Hunk’s uplifting piano melody and the tapping of Allura’s skilled feet.

_‘Straight up_

_Now tell me, is it going to be you and me together_

_Or are you just having fun?’_

As the first chorus ends he and Allura draw close enough to touch, Lance taking her hand and spinning her around him, the two in an endless dance of wanting to press closer but needing to keep their distance. The unsurety of the characters they play, it brings back the old questions Lance had asked himself over and over again before accepting Lotor’s offer.

He had thought writing these words, singing and performing them as though they meant nothing to him, had allowed him to disregard their answers and what they truly meant.

_‘I’ve been fooled before,_

_Wouldn’t like to get my love caught in the slamming door,_

_How about some information **please**?’_

But performing them now – especially after what happened with Keith – the questions just bubble back to the surface, the uncertainty in their answers making his skin crawl. He had pushed their meaning down long ago, convinced that he was content with the situation, but now they rise to the forefront of his mind and he _can’t look away-_

Because does Lotor _actually_ care about him? He had no idea of Lance the _person_ when he proposed, just that stage persona, that sultry smile. Would he actually still care two years from now, three?

_‘A-do-do you love me, do-do you love me baby?’_

Lance had known since day one that he didn’t love Lotor – but he had believed he would feel that way one day because Lotor felt so strongly for him. Because he was important, he was precious, he was his _treasure-_

_‘I’ve been a fool before,_

_Wouldn’t like to get my love caught in the slamming door.’_

But did any of that mean that Lotor actually cared _about_ him?

_‘Are you more than hot for me,_

_Or am I a page in your history book?’_

At this point he and Allura spin and dance with one another, the pair following each other and presenting as mirror images.

Lance glances down, planning on giving Lotor one of his patented winks, but he stops as he notes Keith once more. Keith sitting there uncomfortably as Lotor sits talking to his friend during the performance, an arm thrown across Keith’s shoulders as though to keep him pinned in place.

_‘I don’t mean to make demands_

_But the word and the deed go hand in hand.’_

Lotor gestures towards Keith, clearly talking about him to his friend, likely lording his find over the other. Keith is special, he’s skilled, he’s-

‘ _How about some information, please?’_

Keith is…he’s just a commodity to Lotor. A lucky find to show off to his friends in the playground, to make them jealous.

_‘Straight up_

_Now tell me, do you really want to love me forever?’_

_Lance_ is a commodity.

A pretty toy.

_‘Or am I caught in a hit-and-run?’_

A damsel in distress that Lotor saved.

A fun story to tell at parties.

_‘Straight up,’_

A diamond in the rough he had polished and redressed before using as an accessory to show off.

_‘Is it going to be you and me together?’_

An attractive talking-piece and decoration, an exhibit to Lotor’s generosity. Bought and paid for, living in the delirium that someone could care about him.

But Lotor doesn’t care about him – just for what he can _give_ him _._

_‘Or are you just having fun?’_

Lance had let himself be bought to save the club and to make someone who loved him happy. But once again all he had done was sign himself over to be used. And he had fallen for it, all over again, _still_ not learning his lesson.

The song ended with Allura and he trying to get their breaths back, their chests heaving. The crowd burst into applause, the group at the front breaking into expected loud cheers, giving him a standing ovation and raising their fingers to their mouths to sound out ear-shattering whistles. He nods his thanks, signalling to Hunk to start up with the next song. Allura hurries off stage as quick as she can, casting Lance an irritated look for not giving her adequate time to leave before moving on. But Lance didn’t care: the stupidity of his actions were resting heavy in his chest, and he just wanted to get through his set before getting to leave for the night.

As he performed he tried to keep a tally of the times he looked down to find Lotor walking across the table to one of his guests, but ultimately he either lost count or subconsciously stopped counting to save himself the hurt.

But what he couldn’t count was the number of times he glanced down to find Keith staring at him, completely transfixed. No matter when Lance glanced his way the writer was watching him, eyes wide as though Lance had cast a spell over him. It made a blush rise to Lance’s cheeks, to have utterly and completely captured the writer’s interest. It made him sashay his hips a bit faster, flirt with his crowd a little more. He felt more alive, knowing that Keith’s eyes were focused on him and him alone.

The end of his set couldn’t come quickly enough, Lance hurrying off the stage before the crowd could call for an encore. Coran looked surprised with the singer not milking all the attention he could get from his crowd, opening his mouth to ask if he was okay, but Lance was already gone, making his way into the dressing room to sit down at his table with a heavy sigh.

He glared at himself in the mirror, trying to find something wrong with his outfit, his face, something to explain what could have transfixed Keith with such permanence? Not _once_ had Lance looked to find him distracted as he performed, seeming to drink in every sound, every movement.

He didn’t seem to watch just because Lance was a pretty face, or because he was hoping he could sleep with the singer again. He watched as though Lance were a miracle to behold, watched as though the room were empty and they were the only two people left on Earth. He watched Lance like he was his entire world, and this wasn’t the first time: in previous shows Keith had attended Lance had noticed the looks, the undisturbed rapture with which the writer watched his performances.

It was what had drawn Lance towards him the first time they had met, lost amongst the crowd of his friends looking for this new enigma that had captured his interest with just a few curt words over a bar top. No matter how he had tried to ignore the pull, something kept drawing him back to Keith, ignoring his better judgement over and over just for another chance to talk to the writer. The feel of their hands fitting together as Lance taught him how to dance, Keith’s hands on his shoulders keeping him from spinning out after seeing Nyma, those hands in his hair, gripping the back of his head to keep their mouths slotted together, running down his back and holding him close-

Keith had been drawing him in all this time and Lance had tried fighting it every step of the way because he should keep his word. Because his future didn’t belong to him anymore, and he had traded it away for security and peace of mind.

But this wasn’t peace of mind: for _weeks_ his thoughts had stormed and raged, the writer at the very centre of this mental storm that obliterated all in its path.

Lance didn’t quite realised when he stood and stormed from his dressing table, his body clearly having made a decision before his mind had caught up. He strode into the hall, the lights dim as the act who had come on after him performed their set. He had walked right up to the table before any of them noticed him, Lotor raising a surprised but pleased eyebrow at his arrival. “Lance-?”

“I’m sorry, I need to borrow Keith,” Lance tells him politely, noting the look of fragile hope dawn on the writer’s face at the prospect of escaping.

“Is everything okay?” Lotor asks with light suspicion, glancing from the singer to the writer.

“Perfect,” Lance says with a wide smile, hiding everything he wants to say behind glinting, white teeth. “Just some issues with the play we should iron out sooner rather than later. Keith?” Lance prompted impatiently, looking at him expectantly.

Keith rose robotically, finally shrugging the looming presence of Lotor off of him. “Forgive me for the intrusion to your evening, gentlemen,” Keith tells them, practically giddy at the thought of escaping. “Duty calls.”

Lance turns to leave, butterflies in his chest: he has no idea what he’s doing just yet but that doesn’t matter, he can work it out as he goes on.

“Lance?” Lotor asks. Lance turns back to note Lotor tapping his cheek expectantly. Quickly Lance’s places a kiss to his cheek, wishing him an enjoyable evening, before gripping Keith’s wrist and practically dragging him out of the hall.

Lotor watches them go with suspicion in his eye, noting how tightly Lance has his fingers wrapped around the writer’s wrist. But the pair are gone in an instant, neither of them noting one of the waiters approaching Lotor and talking in a manner that was unbecoming of simply ordering a new drink.

“Where are we going?” Keith asks, almost tripping over his own feet at the speed Lance is setting. These corridors always blend into one big maze of grey to Keith, but he notes as they walk that the sound of the stage only gets quieter, and that he can’t hear the chaotic rumble of the dressing room drawing close.

“Anywhere,” Lance says curtly, glancing around as though the pair may be being followed.

Their journey ends outside a door, Lance opening it quickly and ushering Keith in before closing the door after him and turning on the light.

The room is nice: dressing table, a soft looking couch, a couple bottles of red wine. A private dressing room, by the looks of it.

“Guest performers usually get treated to their own space,” Lance explains, watching Keith glancing around. It had been a long time since such a guest had frequented the club, and the room remains largely unused.

“So there’s an issue with the play?” Keith asks, his mouth feeling dry but not trusting himself to suggest opening a bottle of wine. It seemed that whenever he drank with Lance he only seemed to fall further for the singer, his orbit drawing him in with stronger and stronger force until he made a new mistake.

“No,” Lance says shortly. “I just wanted to save you from Lotor and his friends-”

“Oh – thank you, I-”

“ _And_ to get you alone.”

Keith pauses in his stuttering, casting a look to the singer as he tried to work out Lance’s intention. “So you can…kill me?”

“No,” Lance says. His voice is clipped as though he’s physically holding his words back, his body tensed from holding back the storm for so long. “So I can do this-”

The feel of kissing Lance never seems to cease in taking Keith’s breath away, the singer’s weight on him buckling his knees and having him sink back to sit on the couch. Lance crawls on after him, straddling his waist with his legs and holding his face, keeping their mouths held close together. Keith sighs contently into his mouth, hands automatically raising to rest over Lance’s hips, fingers tangling in the black fringe of the dress.

But his head catches up a lot sooner than his body would have liked. “Lance,” He gasps between kisses, “Lance – this was a mistake, remember?”

“No,” Lance growls, holding Keith with a fierce grip and staring at him with a raging intensity. “The mistake was not doing this sooner. The mistake was every _other_ choice I’ve made keeping myself away from you. The mistake was telling myself, over and over, that I don’t want this: that I don’t want _you.”_

Keith had dreamt of hearing Lance say these words. He’s still for a moment, unable to convince himself that this is real life, Lance growing impatient and returning to their kiss.

“But…but Lotor?” Keith asks, breaking the kiss one again, needing to know that this isn’t just a hormone-fuelled make-out session only for his hopes to get dashed. He _needs_ to know that Lance has thought this out, that this is a rational decision. “What about your engagement?”

“A _sham_ engagement,” Lance breathes. They’re so close to one another it physically hurts Keith not to break down and allow himself to return to kissing the singer. But they had already made so many mistakes with one another up until now: he didn’t want them to make another. “Our engagement is a lie Keith. And I don’t want to lie anymore – I _can’t_ lie anymore, to myself or to anyone else.”

“Lance-” He doesn’t want to keep pushing, keep asking. But he has to, he knows he has to-

“I know the ending, to your play,” Lance tells him with conviction, still seeing the concern on Keith’s face.

“How can you-?”

“The scarfweaver should leave the Prince,” Lance says and Keith feels weightless for a moment, only remaining on Earth due to Lance’s weight over him. “He’s lying to himself when he tells himself he loves the Prince and the Prince loves him. He deserves better.” Lance’s eyes only seem to grow wide with conviction, Keith feeling himself drown in their blue depths and loving every moment of it. “He had told himself that it was all enough, saving what he most cared about as long as someone loved him, looked after him. But that’s not what he wants.”

“Lance-” Keith’s voice is choked up: with joy or with tears, he has no idea.

“The scarfweaver is going to leave the Prince,” Lance tells him with conviction. “The painter is all he has ever wanted and is all he could ever want. All the money in the world can’t buy that.”

Keith can’t take it anymore: he can’t hold himself back and be responsible one moment longer. Lance has thought this through, he has made his decision, and Keith would be lying if he said he wasn’t overjoyed at his choice. He hadn’t pushed, he hadn’t convinced and begged, hadn’t bartered for Lance’s love. He had given him space and let him come to his own decisions, and Keith was rewarded with the singer above him, his mouth dropping to draw him into a kiss all over again. And Keith grinned, turning his mouth up against Lance’s, unable to hide his happiness. His hand raises up to rest against Lance’s face and Lance presses into its touch, comforting and warm, as Keith returns Lance’s passion with every ill-timed thought of affection he had buried down deep about the singer. The dam is broken, the man-made structure of concrete that once stilled the waters disappearing far downstream in a mess of rubble and debris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could end the story here - would be a lovely ending, wouldn't it?  
> Shame there's still 7 chapters to go...
> 
> P.S. cheating is bad! It's allowed here because this is a fiction - don't cheat! Talk through your issues!   
> Now, if you'll excuse me, I will return to writing hypocritical fanfiction.


	10. El Tango de Roxanne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The painter and the scarfweaver have a proposed ending and Lotor is hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY! 
> 
> Guys, we're at a very special chapter. For 2 reasons:  
> 1) this chapter does NOT feature music by the phenomenal Postmodern Jukebox. Why, you may ask? Well...  
> 2) this chapter features the very first scene that I imagined for the thing which ended up being the fanfic you're currently reading. I was driving to Uni one one morning the Tango de Roxanne came on and suddenly all I could imagine were Klance. From there, it sort of spiralled out into what we have now.  
> SO in my mind, this chapter can't feature anything other than the original piece of music that inspired it.  
> But don't be too disappointed - Postmodern will be back next week!
> 
> I love both the [movie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rn0xXo1gwGY) and [Broadway](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sMavM8RGbe4) versions of this song, however I must say it was the movie version that was playing that fateful morning and it's the movie version I personally imagine being performed (but you're free to imagine it any which way you like!)  
> And for those of you who are Moulin Rouge fans - this song serves as inspiration and, while there are similarities, it is not just a shot by shot rewrite of the original. So if you think you know exactly what you're in for, you're wrong...
> 
> Also this chapter is a behemoth at over 10k words - enjoy!

Today, everything is going to change.

Lance wakes up and, for the first time in a long time, guilt isn’t pressing down on his chest. He can take a deep breath, and another, and another, shrugging off the grogginess of sleep with ease, feeling just how well rested his body is. Keith snores, Lance has found out, but it’s a snore that doesn’t keep him awake into the late hours of the night. No: it’s an intermittent snore, coming and going at random, as though reminding Lance when he’s spinning out that Keith is at his side and things will be okay. The sound brings a comfort Lance didn’t expect, and where others would be irritated he only smiles.

Things are going to change today. Lying here with Keith and his random snores are going to become the new normal, and Lance can’t wait for the change. It’s like he’s been holding his breath his entire life for this moment, for this chance to say ‘no’ and choose himself for once. For once he’s going to allow himself to do something truly selfish: he feels the instability of the moment swell, the ground rocking and cracking beneath his feet. He doesn’t know where he’ll be this time next week, or next month, or next year-

Oh god, the club-

Oh _god,_ he’s a cheater-

_Oh god,_ he’s acting like a whore all over again-!

Keith’s soft snore grumbles through the clouds of panic and pushes them back once more, Lance feeling the tension melt out of his shoulders. He gently grabs at Keith and pulls him closer to his chest, close enough that he can feel Keith’s chest rise and fall with each slumbering breath. He could have imagined this moment: those well-timed snores, the almost-uncomfortable heat from the two of them cuddled so close together. But he couldn’t imagine the physical weight of Keith against him right now, the shift of his body as he inhales and exhales. That weight is grounding, keeping him from disappearing into the murky darkness of his own imagination.

This is real: this moment in this bed is real and having it is worth all of the uncertainty currently swirling in his chest. Keith can push the storm back, and for once Lance can imagine his future without a feeling of dread. He sighs happily and lets his eyes close, drinking in this moment for all it is worth.

Today, everything is going to change.

*****

“-and the police grab the painter and haul him out of the way of the parade,” Keith continues, scared to look to Coran, Shiro or Allura only to find that they hate his ending. He just forces himself to press forward, trying to take comfort in Lance’s carefully-spaced presence standing at his back.

He _especially_ doesn’t dare look at Lotor who, when hearing of a possible ending, had insisted he attend the reading.

“But not before the scarfweaver sees him,” he says, honestly growing worried that the paper in his hands is going to burst into flames beneath his gaze. “Seeing him – watching him tear through the crowd in a manic state, hearing him shouting Shams’ name as the parade carries on as though nothing had happened – Shams begins to wonder if what he’s doing is truly worth it. He thought he had done this to make Quamar happy but the painter had looked more miserable, more gaunt in the face, than ever before.

“So the scarfweaver sneaks out of the Palace one night: he needs to know for sure if what he’s doing is the right thing, and he’s spent enough years on the streets to have learned to always have a discrete exit strategy in place. He creeps through these streets he knows so well, streets he thought he would never walk through again, not realising until he comes to their market square that he has no idea where the painter actually lives.

“But luck is on his side, for ever since he had been dragged away from the parade and dumped in the dust on the side lines, the painter hadn’t found the will to move. He had leaned heavily against the building at his back and sighed, ignoring the aches and pains his body had earned from pushing back against the guards – especially the black eye that had spent the afternoon swelling his eye shut. He didn’t know what to do, how to handle being so close to Shams once more and not having said what he needed to. He feels like the words are burning in his chest due to his failure, hurting him more than any bruises could.

“He starts as a soft hand touches his cheek, his good eye opening and having to blink several times before he can convince himself that the scarfweaver is actually kneeling in front of him in the flesh, stroking a thumb over his black eye and looking guilty.

“ ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I should have stopped them – I should have said something’

“ ‘It is I that should have said something,’ the painter says. He sits forward, clasping the scarfweaver’s hands in his own to make sure that they both remain in this moment, together. And finally he tells the scarfweaver everything he had been dying to say for all this time. The confessions spill from his lips, one after another, desperate to get them out lest Shams disappear in a flash of blinding light. But the scarfweaver remains, his mouth dropping further and further open with each uttered word.

“The scarfweaver can’t do it: he can’t give up his life for the happiness of the painter because, without him, the painter never _could_ be happy. All the money in the world couldn’t change that. They share their first kiss, in the square where they met and their had fates intermingled forever.

“They know that reality is sure to catch up to them: they were twisting their fates, steering from their plotted path, and knew there would be consequences. So the pair decide to flee into the night, eloping together with hands clasped tight, stopping at the painter’s house momentarily to retrieve the fiery silk scarf before abandoning all that they knew, pledging to leave the city and their lives behind. It didn’t matter where they went, or who they were – they just had to be together and that was enough for them.

“We’ll see them walk off,” Keith tells his concerningly quiet audience, “And our final scene will show the Prince and his men breaking down the door to the painter’s house to retrieve what is rightfully his. The door opens and the Prince freezes as, in the centre of the room, is the bag of coins he had given in payment to the painter. Each coin is present and accounted for, the painter never having spent even one of them, unable to consider it in the loss of Shams. This is where the houselights will fall and the stage will go black.”

Keith’s throat feels incredibly dry after talking for so long, but the fact that he’s almost finished is terrifying: he knows once he stops talking he’s going to hear the critiques and he’s not sure he’s ready for them. “I know the end doesn’t answer every single question of what happens next, but it doesn’t need to. Detailing every aspect of what’s to come, riding off into the sunset with a happy ending - life doesn’t just _end_. It keeps on going and not every question receives an answer. But we’ll leave the audience with a sense of hope for the painter and scarfweaver’s futures together.”

He wants to run: he wants to apologise and duck his head to hide his expression and march home before the ridicule can hit. He wants to pack up his things and disappear into the night, never to be seen again.

Lance steps forward, reminding Keith of his unwavering support, and casts the writer a proud glance. “So?” He prompts the room, noting how the continuing silence is weighing on Keith. “What do you think?”

“Well I’m just happy there’s an ending!” Allura proclaims, snickering as Shiro elbows her.

“Not _just_ an ending,” Shiro takes over, side-eyeing her in a bid to silence the snickers she fails to hide behind a polite hand. “But a _good_ ending. I love that it doesn’t strive to give the perfect: it feels real. I think it would satisfy our audience.” He shrugs, finishing with the point, “It satisfies me.”

The ginger-haired club owner strokes at his moustache, pulling on the ends in thought. “Do you think this is the ending, Keith?” Coran asks cryptically, eyeing the writer up and down.

He wants to lie, mourning how far Lance is standing from him when all he wants to do is grip his hand for support. But Lance’s face turns ever so slightly and gives him a tentative smile, and suddenly Keith doesn’t feel so uncertain anymore.

“I do,” he says with absolute conviction. “It’s the only ending I’ve considered that feels like it does the characters justice.”

Coran contemplates for a moment, standing and walking up to Keith before grinning and extending a hand. “Well done, my boy.”

The anxiety, the stress, that had been filling Keith’s gut dissipates with Coran’s smile as he takes his hand with a firm grip and shakes. Allura and Shiro turn to one another and begin chattering excitedly about scene set-ups and lighting, Lance dancing at Keith’s side, waiting impatiently for Coran to release the writer’s hand so Lance can pounce forwards and pull Keith into a hug.

“Am I the only one with concerns?”

The commanding voice lowers the mood of the hall considerably, Lance remembering himself and quickly releasing Keith, stepping back and placing a safe distance between them.

“Concerns, Lotor?” Coran asks, puzzled with the Duke’s displeased expression.

“Obviously,” The Duke says. “I mean, it’s nice and all – I just didn’t realise we were going for such a cheesy ending.”

“Lotor-” Coran interrupts.

“It’s really that easy?” Lotor presses on, rising from his chair. “They just…leave? You promised me a great ending – you promised everyone who attended the gala _I arranged_ a great ending.”

“They don’t just leave,” Lance defends, surprised he can even get words out around Lotor today considering the weight of what he is waiting to say. “They give up _everything_ they had.”

“Where’s the drama?” Lotor asks, still clearly unimpressed with Lance’s reasoning for the ending. “The darkness? If I had known I was funding a childish little fairytale, I would have thought twice. How is _this_ supposed to captivate Paris?”

“It’s beautiful-” Lance tells him. He lets his natural stubbornness rise: he doesn’t care how it looks, him fighting his fiancé in favour of Keith, but it doesn’t matter. Everything is going to change and he’s done keeping himself quiet and pretty.

“It’s unrealistic,” Lotor snaps back, and Lance almost ends things right then right there in anger, luckily being saved by Allura stepping in to mediate.

“What else were you expecting, Lotor?” She asks calmly, drawing the Duke’s attention from his seething fiancé.

“I still think the painter and the scarfweaver shouldn’t end up together,” He says curtly, ignoring Lance rolling his eyes. “It’s predictable and boring.”

“How about,” Coran suggests, “the Prince takes after the couple, tries to track them down – almost catches them? We could have a thrilling chase to round the show off.” It’s not an easy situation for the club owner, stuck between his writer and his benefactor – mediating an acceptable ending between the two was surely to prove difficult.

“How about the Prince catches up and kills one of them?” Lotor says. “God knows, if I were in that situation I wouldn’t let someone get away with embarrassing me like that.”

Keith feels himself pale at Lotor’s words, knowing they aren’t said with the intention of a threat but understanding that such intent could very well be soon found.

“That’s an awful ending!” Lance snaps. “No one is that heartless.”

“It’s _because_ he has a heart that he’ll do it,” Lotor tells him. “The scarfweaver betrayed him: he can’t be allowed to get away with that.”

Lance knows his anger and irritation are not proportional to the current situation, but he can’t rein it in. Every moment of aggravation with the Duke he had previously held back comes bubbling up to the surface. “What’s the point?” He hisses, “The scarfweaver has made his choice – why would the Prince even _want_ to still be with him?”

“Then the Prince should kill the painter before the scarfweaver has the chance to make the decision.” Lotor and Lance are scowling deeply at one another, the Duke apparently displeased that Lance is questioning him and refusing to back down. “He saw what happened at the square: the police had the painter. Instead of leaving him to rot in the dust throw him in irons - execute him before the scarfweaver can even consider going back on his word.”

“Keith?” Shiro asks, walking closer and placing a hand on Keith’s shoulder, “Are you feeling alright?”

“Just a little…light-headed,” He says pathetically, unsure of exactly what emotion is sapping his energy: whatever it is, it does not leave him feeling well.

“Come on,” Shiro leads him out of the hall, leaving the arguing voices behind him, “Lets get you some water and somewhere to lie down. There’s no point getting in the middle of those two while they’re going at it.” Shiro chuckles, “The stubbornness of them both, they were clearly made for each other.”

Those words only leave him feeling worse.

*****

“You’re not the writer, Lotor!” Lance says sharply. “You don’t get a say in the creative process.”

“I sure as hell _do_ get a say when I am the main – no, the _only –_ investor in this idiotic production.”

“He has a point, Lance,” Coran tries coaxing the singer down. “If one in four attendees don’t enjoy it, that will ruin us.”

“One in _five,”_ Lance reminds Coran of his support. “And who’s to say a depressing ending will be any better?”

“But we need to remain open to discussion,” Coran says, trying to keep the two from returning to yelling at one another. “This is all about utilising feedback.”

Lance bites his tongue at Coran’s rational words, holding himself back from what he truly wants to yell at Lotor: now is certainly not the time. He just felt so protective from watching the excited look on Keith’s face fall and to leave that hollow expression of uncertainty, that confidence in himself visibly melting away. Lance couldn’t just let it go without putting up a fight.

“How about,” Lotor suggests, regaining his composure and brushing the hairs back from his face that had come loose during the heat of the argument, “we discuss it over dinner, tonight? I’ll give you the chance to persuade me that your ending is that much better than mine.”

Lotor’s voice is sickly and sticky, making Lance wrinkle his nose as the ‘composed businessman’ returns, leaving Lance looking irrational in comparison to such calmness if he doesn’t do the same.

“I can’t,” Lance says evenly, trying not to visibly grit his teeth. “I’m performing tonight, _remember?”_

“I’m sure Coran can give you the evening off,” Lotor says firmly, raising his eyebrow at the club-owner who looks on with uncertainty over what he should say.

“Lotor-” Lance growls.

“ _Can’t_ you, Coran?” Lotor presses, pinning Coran with a hard look.

The club-owner sighs sadly, nodding his head in defeat, “Of course he can have the night off, Lotor. Anything for you two.”

Lance’s mouth drops open, initially in shock but then to be used in preparation of his rebuttal, before pausing and realising just what an opportunity this was. He was originally going to have to go to Lotor’s home after the show later tonight to end things: this way he can at least get it out of the way earlier in the evening and maybe even be left with enough time to celebrate with a certain writer. “Where do you want to go – for dinner?” Lance asks, not caring as he doesn’t plan on sticking around long enough to order.

“How about your place?” Lotor asks, smirking at Lance’s surprised reaction. “What? You’re _always_ telling me I should come round more often.”

Lance feels a lump in his throat at the idea of Lotor being in his home, in his _bedroom,_ when Lance hadn’t even had a chance to change the sheets yet. Surrounded by the knowledge of his crime, and unable to actually escape until the Duke chose to leave lest he abandon his own home. Dinner at a restaurant was easy: he could say his piece and leave the situation. But in his own home he was trapped until Lotor left, and the idea of being without an escape made Lance uneasy.

“I don’t-”

“Say, eight o’clock?” Lotor suggests, glancing down at his watch. “You had better get going – if you want enough time to cook and get ready.”

“Lotor-” He tries to refuse again but Lotor simply waves him off, stepping in close to place a firm kiss to his cheek.

“Wear something nice,” He orders in a whisper before turning away and leaving the club.

*****

Lance hates that he’s standing here, slaving over a stove instead of in the club getting ready for his set. He needed to be amid the chaos of the dressing room, guarding his area against those who wanted to try and steal one of his of lipsticks, joking with Hunk, warming up his vocals with the stupid-sounding exercises he had cultivated over the years. He needed the calm of pandemonium, helping him step out of his own head for a short while: he had spent so much time recently trapped in his own thoughts, he was giving himself a headache.

_Just a little longer,_ he tells himself. _A little longer until this all ends. Until you can come clean and start a new. A clean slate: no more baggage.._

He was excited.

He was _terrified_.

He-

He could smell burning…

Was he having a stroke-?

_Shit-!_

He pulled the pan from the heat, blowing on the smoking and charred meat, mentally and physically shaking himself: he did not need to add ‘burned down the flat’ to his current list of issues. Lance frowned at the mess in the pan before he just shrugged and returned it to the heat, adding the sauce he had prepared and allowing the red hue of the tomatoes to mask the disaster he had made of the meat. It didn’t matter, after all: he was going to talk to Lotor as soon as the Duke arrived. Why force himself through an uncomfortable dinner when they could deal with the awkwardness straight away and Lotor could go back home. He would be in and out, five minutes tops.

Lance felt a foreign confidence in his gut: not the usual obnoxious confidence he often fronted, but a real, genuine confidence in what he was doing. It felt right, to be placing his bets on Keith, to be making a decision for himself instead of for other people’s happiness.

He was wearing a simple blue silk shirt and trousers, black suspenders over his shoulders and sleeves rolled up to his elbow as he worked on dinner, each stir of the pot earning him a sip of his wine: a rebellion against the final order Lotor would give him. He didn’t want to put effort into looking his best to please the Duke: he had spent enough time doing that, and he didn’t need his mask of make-up tonight.

As the knock on the door announced the Duke’s arrival, Lance’s nerves were tangled in a twisted clump in his chest, taking a panicked gulp of wine to still its squirming before leaving the kitchen to answer the door. He didn’t need the mask, he _refused_ to wear the mask: this was him, raw and real, and he was going to make sure Lotor got a good look before he dismissed him.

He grasped the doorknob, taking two deep breath before opening the door: this will be over soon-

“Was worried you hadn’t heard me,” Lotor said with a displeased tone, looking down at his watch. “Took you a while to answer the door.”

“I was preparing dinner,” Lance said curtly, stepping back to allow Lotor access to his flat. The Duke rarely came here, usually only to collect Lance on their way to a lavish party. The furnishings were not to the Duke’s usual standards, and why sleep in Lance’s cheap lumpy bed when they could sleep on a state of the art mattress. Really, why would he come here at all?

Which made it all the more strange that Lotor wanted to have dinner here, planning to spend the entire evening in the squalor of Lance’s world. Still, it didn’t matter – Lance didn’t expect the evening to last long.

He took a deep breath, turning around to his fiancé, “Lotor-”

“Fetch me a glass of wine, would you?” Lotor requested, closing the door after him and flicking the latch on the lock.

Lance stumbled for a second, tempted to push through before considering that things may in fact go smoother with a glass of wine in hand. He did as Lotor asked, turning down the heat on the meal he was cooking, filling a glass for Lotor and topping up his own in the process.

Lotor thanks him as he hands the glass over, sipping and wrinkling his nose in disgust. “What year is this?” He asks Lance, squinting at the red liquid in the glass as a foreign substance.

“I…I don’t know,” Lance shrugs: he should have known the wine was too cheap for Lotor’s tastes.

Lotor sighs in disappointment and takes another drink, forcing himself to swallow past the taste, “I suppose it will do. Remind me to bring my own wine next time.”

Lance feels an initial surge of guilt at disappointing Lotor before he forcibly pushes the reaction down: he wasn’t here to please the Duke. He was here to end things, to start a new chapter-

Lotor takes a seat at the table that is usually pushed up against the wall of the living room, Lance having had to dust it from disuse before he had set it with plates and cutlery: he and Hunk were much more inclined to grab food and eat with their legs crossed on the couch, but Lance suspected that wouldn’t placate Lotor.

He wasn’t sure why he had gone to the effort if he was going to end this as soon as possible, but he felt like it would throw up warning signs if Lotor walked into his home for dinner and nothing had been done to prepare the room. He didn’t want Lotor getting his defences up and forming arguments to counter what Lance was going to say to him.

Lance turns to the Duke, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he opens his mouth, “Lotor-”

“Why don’t you take a seat?” Lotor asks him, the Duke raising an eyebrow at him. When Lance still doesn’t move he inclines his head towards the empty chair with an impatient look and suddenly Lance is moving, pulling the chair out with a scrape against the floor and landing heavily in the seat.

“Okay-” Lance says.

“I really don’t understand why you still live here,” Lotor talks over him, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Especially when I’ve asked you multiple times to move in with me. You’re wasting your money, keeping this place.”

Lance bristles at his tone, raising to defend the home Hunk had accepted him into three years ago, “Just because it’s not a _mansion-_ ”

“You don’t need to shout.”

Lance stops, checking his volume that he was sure wasn’t overly loud to begin with. “Just because-”

Lotor rolls his eyes, sipping at his wine and waving a hand towards the singer, “Calm down, I was just saying. I don’t understand why you need to make such a big deal out of everything.”

He balks, trying to keep from shrieking and earning another volume check, “I am _not-”_

“Like today, at the club,” Lotor goes on as though Lance wasn’t even speaking, “With the ending. I was just making suggestions – you didn’t need to get so riled up and make a scene.”

“You weren’t listening to me,” Lance tells him. His jaw hurts from how hard he’s tensing it to keep from flying off the handle, but he doesn’t want to lose his temper and only succeed in proving Lotor’s point. “Your ending doesn’t fit with all the work that Keith has done on the story.”

“Well _Keith’s_ story,” he sneers, “is only being produced because of the work _I_ have done: I deserve a say in its outcome, _especially_ when it’s my reputation on the line - not some little writer that no one’s even heard of before.”

“You _chose_ to put the money into the show,” Lance points out, “That doesn’t mean you get to dictate how it goes.”

“I _chose_ to put money into the show so that you could actually show off your talent for once,” Lotor snaps. “So that you could _finally_ get out of that club: so you can make a name for yourself.”

“So, what?” Lance crosses his arms and leans back into his chair. “So you can show all your friends that there’s a reason you wasted so much time on me. What if I’m happy at the club?”

“Don’t be a child,” Lotor scoffs.

“I’m not being a child-”

“What you’re being,” Lotor tells him calmly, settling a disapproving look on his fiancé and his tantrum, “Is naïve. You really think you will have a job there in 6 months, a year? That place is on death’s doorstep, mere days away from closing down for good.”

“Not with the help you have-”

“Well maybe I’m tired of bailing them out,” Lotor says threateningly. “They should stand on their own two feet.”

Lance panics for a second before finally coming back to himself through the haze of anger: he was here to end things with Lotor, not to be drawn into an argument. The club would lose Lotor’s support with Lance’s rejection anyway, the Duke couldn’t hold it hostage to keep Lance in place any longer.

“Maybe they’re not the only ones,” Lance says, but the words go unheard as Lotor stands and crosses the room to where he had dumped his jacket, retrieving a black velvet box that sits as large as his hand. He returns and stands over Lance, the box making a lump build in Lance’s throat.

“You always said you weren’t one for rings,” Lotor says. “But I’m tired of the world not knowing that you are mine.”

Lance’s eyes are wide, pupils minute pinpricks in the centre of light blue, “Lotor-”

“So, a compromise.”

Lotor opens the box and there sits Lotor’s compromise, a marquise diamond in its centre surrounded by a ring of sapphires. More jewels of silver and blue spread out from its centre, encrusting the neck of whomever should wear it. Lance stutters for a moment, alarm bells sounding in his head. He can’t move - he can’t allow himself to touch the necklace - the metal seeming as a permanent brand that would keep him to Lotor’s side forever if he so much as traces a fingertip over its surface.

“You are the only one for me,” Lotor says, that necklace hovering in front of Lance’s face, “And I am the only one for you.”

“I-I don’t-” Lance stutters.

“No one understands you like I do,” Lotor says, almost threateningly. Lance nods, thinking back on all of the secrets he has given Lotor over the years in penance for the Duke’s care, convincing himself that the more he gave to Lotor the more his feelings of devotion would grow. But now it only felt like the scales were tipped, Lotor holding all of the cards of Lance’s dark past while he sat with an empty hand.

“I know everything about you,” Lotor says, dipping down onto one knee as though proposing all over again. “Where you have chased people away, I have resiliently stayed by your side.”

There were secrets of Lance’s past that Keith didn’t know- that Keith didn’t _want_ to know.

“Who else could want you like I do, _knowing_ what I do?”

Would Keith still want to be with him after he found out? Could Lance ever even bring himself to share the secret? Or would he just spend the rest of his days keeping it hidden from the writer.

“No one can love you like I do,” Lotor rises and takes the necklace from the box, coming to stand as a looming presence behind Lance’s back. “Because only _I_ know every part of you. Anything else would be a lie.”

Lance was struggling to breathe evenly, feeling that earlier confidence crumbling beneath Lotor’s words. Because the Duke was right: someone couldn’t care about him without knowing each and every part of his being. Keith can only care for the select pieces Lance had allowed him to see: but he had hidden the deep darkness that nipped at his core away from the writer. Learning what Lance truly was would destroy those fragile feelings in a heartbeat, and he would be alone once more.

He couldn’t start a life with Keith and keep his secret – he had promised he was done living a lie. The two couldn’t co-exist, and he was struggling to summon the courage to start a new life when he knew Keith was going to reject him when he found out the truth.

He had truly thought he was going to finally be wholly and truly himself, but now all he sees is the mask he’s worn around Keith this entire time: the mask he would _have_ to keep wearing to keep the writer in his life. He was wrong when he said that it was Lotor he kept himself hidden from: it was Lotor who knew who he truly was and who still chose to remain at his side. Who still cared despite the darkness.

Lotor lowers the necklace past Lance’s face, letting the large diamond at it’s centre settle in the hollow of his neck. Goosebumps rise across Lance’s skin, the metal feeling like a burning brand that will scar his skin forever. He wants to run, to rip the thing from his throat before Lotor can hook the clasp at the back, but frustratingly he stays frozen in his chair, his thoughts screaming at him to _move,_ to end it all right now before it’s too late. But Lotor’s words are having their desired effect, filling Lance with doubtful turmoil, bringing forth the idea that the world will always be against the singer and the only one who can keep him safe is the Duke.

“I am the only one who you can’t destroy,” Lotor says, either not noticing the turmoil behind Lance’s eyes or choosing to ignore it. “The only one who can survive your darkness.”

The screaming anguish in Lance’s head, the shouting and shrieking voices warring with each other, go silent as the silver chain presses tight against his skin and the clasp clicks loudly behind him, deafening as a jail cell slamming closed. Those thoughts telling him to ignore Lotor’s words, to push through, to finally end things and believe in Keith and their future, are silent. They shrivel and hush as the metal and rocks settle against his throat, the diamond feeling as though it weighed a thousand pounds, weighing Lance down and leaving him feeling breathless.

“And…” Lance licks at his lips, feeling hollow and afraid as he turns in his chair and looks up at the Duke to ask but one thing of him. “And the ending?”

Lotor grins, leaning his head down and kissing Lance’s forehead, “As long as I have my fairytale ending, let them have theirs.”

*****

Keith was staring at a piece of blank paper, disappointment sitting low in his gut and unable to shake the feeling of foolishness. The rejection of his ending hurt in an all too personal manner, feeling as though they had rejected he and Lance opposed to just a story. Shiro had pulled him aside and reminded him that you can’t please everyone, that most of them had loved the ending, how it only needed a few tweaks. But Keith was stuck focusing on the negative comments said by the Duke and left him feeling like he had let everyone down.

Except for Lance.

Lance, who had guided him through writing the final pages. Who squealed and clapped at moments, who promised Keith it was perfect, who was unrestrained in pulling Keith forwards into secret kisses in the shadows and leaving the writer blushing and spluttering. Lance, who proved that the ending was realistic when he chose Keith: that is wasn’t a naïve fairytale ending, but a happiness that was possible to obtain.

“What’s up with your face?” Pidge asks him, placing a glass of familiar amber liquid beneath his nose without him needing to ask. “You look like I told you the bar is closing early.”

He takes the glass and takes a large gulp, savouring how it heated his chilled core. “You’re not, are you?”

“Not likely,” The bar-hand snickered, “Unless I want Coran to fire my ass. He’s already stressed enough as it is tonight.”

“Is he?” Keith asked, eyeing the papers of disappointment scattered across the bar and suspecting the club-owner’s worries stemmed from putting his faith in the wrong hands.

“Yeah, with the last minute shake-up to tonight’s running order,” Pidge says off-hand. It was amazing how she could hold a conversation across the bar regardless of filling customer orders, counting change or cleaning glasses. It made Keith feel marginally better that his pestering presence wasn’t keeping her from her work.

“Running order?” He asks, glancing to the line of enthusiastic can-can dancers currently on the stage, their legs flying higher than the frill of their skirts.

“Yeah, with Lance,” Pidge says, drawing Keith’s entire attention back to her.

“Lance?”

She shrugs, pulling her glasses off her face and grimacing at the grease on them before trying to clean them on her shirt, only succeeding in leaving smeared marks across the glass. “His dinner, with the duke? Come on – everyone’s talking about their bust-up earlier. Guess your ending really s _truck a chord,”_ She snickers, raising an eyebrow when Keith doesn’t at least roll his eyes at the entirely intended pun.

“They’re having dinner?” Keith asks.

“ _That’s_ what you take away from what I just said,” She says with a disappointed shake of her head. “But yeah – Lotor wanted the two of them to go to dinner and sort it out. Made Coran give Lance the night off, so Coran needed to fill the line-up somehow.”

“Oh,” Keith says dumbly. He hadn’t noticed that he had subconsciously remained just to see Lance perform, but it’s obvious now just in the way his chest falls in disappointment that he won’t get to see the singer take command of the stage.

It takes a moment for his brain to catch-up to consider the meanings of Lance having dinner with Lotor. The singer had repeated over and over his choice to end things with the Duke: was this dinner the time he was going to do it? Was Lance somewhere right now, dumping the Duke over what was supposed to be a candlelit dinner? Keith didn’t want to get his hopes up, the pessimist in him promising that this was all going to collapse around him, but the naïve part of him filled to bursting with excitement at the idea that the next time he saw Lance they would truly belong to each other.

“You don’t want to know who’s covering Lance?” Pidge asks him.

“Should I care?”

“Oh, you should,” The little gremlin grins. “It’s an old, _old_ performer: hasn’t graced the stage in _years.”_

“So?”

“So?!” Pidge repeats, incredulous. “Are you telling me I haven’t even s _lightly_ piqued your interest?”

Keith shrugs, not willing to admit that his interest has already been piqued, and then some, by the absentee club-singer who he had shared a bed with the previous evenings. At this moment in time, he simply had no interest left to go around.

Pidge looks disgusted with him, before looking to the stage and shoving at his shoulder to get him to turn around and watch as the curtains draw open. “Trust me, you’re going to want to see this.”

The stage is empty, the only performers to be seen being Hunk and the musicians sitting primed and ready to begin. The piano and guitar come in together as a form steps confidently onto the stage. Allura is wearing a black dress that drapes down from the waist, her silver hair tied atop her hair and well out of the way. From the opposite side of the stage another figure steps out into the light, hair slicked back and moustache freshly trimmed, clad in a red vest. Keith’s mouth drops as Coran comes into view, Pidge snickering in his ear where she leans across the bar. “I _told_ you you’d want to see.”

The piece truly starts with Allura and Coran stamping their feet in unison, Allura stepping easily into the strict moves of her tango, each movement deliberate and sharp, moving around Coran as he walks to centre stage and addresses his audience.

_‘First, there is desire.’_

The fact that they’re brother and sister fades into oblivion as the pair don their characters, Allura stepping up close and drawing Coran into her dance, the force of her seduction pulling him in.

_‘Then, passion.’_

The pair’s faces are close, a staged heat between the two, stealing the focus even as a third performer steps onto the stage. Allura’s face turns from Coran’s to the newcomer, Shiro managing to make the simple act of walking even look like a dance.

_‘Then, suspicion.’_

Allura pulls from Coran’s arms, conflicted between the two of them, ever inching closer to Shiro as though a moth drawn to the flame. The pair try to keep their distance, as though stalking one another, as Coran watches on.

_‘Jealousy’_

Allura’s and Shiro’s hands clasp, drawing their bodies close with one another.

_‘Anger’_

Coran’s gaze is scalding, watching the pair dance with one another, Shiro dipping his head and leaning down to steal a kiss-

_‘ **Betrayal** ’_

Coran practically shouts the word and the two break apart, caught in the act as he steps between and advances upon Allura, driving her back as he reaches for her and the two enter a dance of wills, Allura trying to break from him while he holds her close in an iron grasp.

_‘Where love is for the highest bidder, there can be no trust._

_Without trust, there **is** no love.” _

He releases Allura, watching on as she flees to Shiro to return to their passionate tango, casting glances to Coran to ensure he’s still watching on with envy, showing that she still has power over him even now.

_‘Jealousy…’_

Coran grimaces to his audience, nodding as he says,

‘ _Yes_ ,

_Jealousy will drive you mad.’_

The band seems to build, stretching the moment with the vibrato of the strings before Coran begins to sing with a deep, gravelled voice that Keith never would have expected of the club-owner.

‘ _Roxanne!’_

The act is entrancing, the stoic form of Coran standing firm against the harsh and passionate tango of Shiro and Allura, seemingly caught in a battle between themselves, always warring with pulling one another closer or casting the other away. Their sure feet stamp against the wood of the stage, sounding out the music’s tempo, adding a rhythm of their own making.

Keith has to admit, he’s almost glad that Lance couldn’t perform to allow this to take centre stage: _almost_.

But the absentee singer leaves a longing hole in Keith’s chest: he had been looking forward to the set list tonight, to see what Lance picked to tell the world of his feelings. Truth be told, Keith wanted to hear if the music was as elated as Lance had been when they had woken up together this morning, certain on his path that today was going to be different.

As Keith watches the warring tango on stage, the fiery passion between Allura and Shiro, burning so bright that it destroys all else around them. They’re beautiful together, moving as though they are one, two pieces slotting together perfectly as Shiro dips Allura low to the ground or raises her above his head with an impressive flourish. Its as though the characters are terrified of their fire, the destructive power of their union, trying to break from the other but always drawn back into their never-ending dance.

He sees the mock-anger on Coran’s face and feels guilt, unable to see anything other than Lotor standing there, how he stalks the lovers and watches on with envy, unable to let Allura go without a fight. It’s terrifying: the suspense of watching eye cast over the lovers, waiting on them slipping, of them making a mistake. Coran is ready to seize any moment of weakness, ready to tear them down should they faulter.

Keith sighs and turns from the stage, gathering his things.

“Going already?” Pidge asks with a cocked brow. “Coran that bad?”

“Not at all,” Keith says honestly: the club-owner is actually quite captivating, he wonders why he stopped performing to begin with. “I just…have a headache.”

It’s not an ache of the head so much as the heart, a want – a _need_ – to see a certain singer, but he doesn’t tell Pidge that.

She shrugs, “You’re missing out.”

And he doesn’t doubt that: the energy from the stage is explosive, and he would like to stay to see what else Coran would perform. But right now his heart just wasn’t in it: it was across the city settled in the hands of a man who seemed to consume each and every of his waking thoughts. He didn’t want to stay in the club, watching the stage where Lance wasn’t standing, reminded over and over again that the singer wasn’t there.

He left without ceremony, ready for his walk home, glancing up towards Lance’s apartment where he dearly wished he could be, hiding from the world beneath the covers of Lance’s bed, the singer’s arms tight around him as they spoke in hushed whispers and contained laughter.

*****

“Come,” Lotor tells him, taking his limp hand and pulling him to rise. “You simply must see just how exquisite it looks on you.”

Lance follows numbly, feeling like the necklace had placed a freezing enchantment over him, his body cold and unresponsive, his thoughts slowed to a sluggish pace. The jewellery sapped the fire Keith had lit in Lance’s chest of its blazing light, the flames pushed back against the freezing chill. He felt brittle, a sculpture of ice that could crack at any moment, it’s only true purpose to look beautiful for such a short time before he melted into nothingness and the world moved on without him.

Lotor leads him to the full length mirror at the window, grinning over Lance’s shoulder as the singer takes in the sight of the necklace at his throat.

It’s…gaudy. He isn’t sure if something so expensive even _could_ be described as gaudy, but that’s what it is. Its ostentatious, its pretentious, and it makes him feel vulgar wearing it. He knows that whatever he may wear, however he applies his make-up, this thing will be the first and only thing people see when they look at him. Like a collar, that diamond an effective dog tag, ensuring the world knew that he belonged to someone powerful and he was off-limits. It burned like a brand: not a flaming heat, but the aching burn of the cold, his flesh feeling frostbitten beneath the metal, decay and death spreading further with each passing minute, sweeping through him and leaving him empty and necrotic.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Lotor prompts.

Lance swallows to try and speak, hating how the necklace bobs against his adam’s apple as he does so, before giving up and silently nodding.

“You are mine,” Lotor says into his ear, making Lance shiver as he wraps firm arms around the singer’s waist to completely envelope him with his body. “Now and forever. Even in death, these jewels will remain to catch the light and remind the world that you still belong to me.”

Lance looks at himself: his too wide eyes sitting deep in a gaunt face, pale in the light from beyond the window. Those dark bags beneath his eyes are already back, feeling as though he has aged an eternity since that morning. That morning with Keith, sharing a bed with someone that had made him feel so _good,_ who made him think that he could matter-

It’s a painful contrast, those warming thoughts against the cold that encased him now. How foolish that hope felt in hindsight, how childish and naïve-

Lance’s eyes drift, unable to look at himself another moment, watching the figures hurry down the street through the window. People living their everyday lives, the world carrying on despite how numbingly cold he felt: how many of them were _actually_ happy? How many actually led a life they enjoyed, as opposed to living for living’s sake, waking up every day with the lone goal to survive until the sunset? Why should he be any different?

He thinks he imagines Keith, watching him with those transfixed eyes of his, their darkness drawing him in even from this distance. He blinks, expecting the writer to disappear in the brief darkness, but he remains in the centre of the street, gazing up and watching Lance and Lotor standing in the window.

He looks…hopeful. Hopeful, and afraid of being hopeful. He doesn’t know what it means, Lance standing with Lotor looming overhead, holding him close. He had thought today would be different-

_Lance_ had thought today would be different-

He feels something crack in his chest: it’s the deep, sharp sound of a hunk of ice breaking free of the glacier it had been bound to for eternity, splashing down into the ocean crystal clear with possibility. From the crack comes that flaring heat of fire, the flames leaping high and pushing the cold back with a scorching heat, releasing the necklace’s enchanted hold of his throat.

Keith’s eyes bore through to Lance’s centre and thaw him, that belief in their future returning in a tsunami, those hushed voices in his head rising up into a cacophonous rage, all screaming the same thing, dredging the forgotten hope up out of the darkness:

_Today is different!_

_TODAY IS DIFFERENT!_

**_TODAY_ **

**_IS_ **

**_DIFFERENT!!_ **

“No.” The word is quiet: it should sound pathetically small, but that single syllable is enough with the power of the roaring tide surging behind it. He feels Lotor’s body turn stiff at his back, hands digging in where they hold his waist, the Duke’s head turning to follow Lance’s gaze.

“No…” Lotor repeats, almost in disbelief. “Oh, I see now – you’ve been bewitched by the words of the penniless writer.”

Lance removes those clawing hands from his waist, turning, “Lotor-”

“Silence!” The duke screams, his face red with rage, this smooth silky hair seeming to bristle as he looms over Lance. He seizes Lance’s wrists with an iron grip, nails digging into the fragile flesh and making Lance gasp in pain. He shoves the singer up against the wall, slamming Lance’s head back so that he cries out and stars dance across his eyes, hissing in his face, “You made me believe that you _loved_ me!”

******

Keith stomach _plummets_ as Lance hits the wall: terror is clear on the singer’s face, eyes wide and fearful beneath the rage of the duke. He stutters for a moment, unable to quite process that this is actually happening, before his body jumps into action and he sprints towards Lance’s building, taking the stairs two at a time.

*****

“I’m _sorry_ -”

“Fucking whore,” Lotor spits. “You dare use me in the way you do everyone else? Taking my money, my _kindness,_ while you’re fucking some nobody behind my back?”

“When did you-?” Lance tries to ask but Lotor slams him against the wall again, the bruising force on his wrists ensuring he can’t escape.

“You think you can betray _me_ and I wouldn’t find out? I knew you were stupid, but I didn’t know you were _that_ stupid!”

“It’s not-”

Lance gasps as Lotor slaps him across the cheek, head snapping to the side in a sharp movement. Lance has a moment to look beyond the window for Keith before Lotor’s hand grabs his jaw and forces him to look at him. The author was gone, disappeared into the night as though he were never there at all: maybe he hadn’t been there, Lance just seeing what he needed to be able to deny the duke.

“Don’t tell me what it is and _isn’t,”_ Lotor hisses. “I know _exactly_ what the two of you have been up to – once a whore always a whore.”

Lance remains quiet, that grip on his jaw painful and holding his mouth shut.

“I will _not_ be embarrassed in this way by a piece of filth such as yourself.” Lotor’s face is seething, rage crashing off of him in waves. “You seem to have forgotten that, without me at your side, you are _nothing –_ I _made_ all that you are _._ Your only purpose in life is to please _me!”_

“Not anymore,” Lance tries to growl, but it’s a garbled, unintelligible mess against Lotor’s pressing fingers. The words only manage to enrage the Duke further, drawing Lance’s jaw up higher, exposing his neck and straining the muscles as he glares down at him.

“My my, aren’t we turning a blind eye to our roots,” Lotor spits. “You seem to be forgetting that you _kill_ everything you touch, _mon trésor_ ,” He speaks the pet-name in a mockery, sneering as he utters the words. “You really think this time will be any different?”

“I do-” Lance says, his head hitting the wall once more to silence him, his vision growing fuzzy for a moment and he struggles to keep up with Lotor’s words.

“You’re wrong,” Lotor growls. “There’s only one way this story ends, and that’s with you at my side wearing that necklace around your pretty little neck. But I’ll allow you to pick the path you use to get there,” he sneers.

Lance blinks up at him, struggling to speak against the static buzzing in his head.

“Either you end things with the writer and choose me, the only person on earth who is capable of withstanding your particular brand of destruction,” Lotor tells him. “ _Or_ I’ll remove the choice entirely.”

Lance shivers beneath the threatening words, feeling tears gathering in his eyes. “You don’t mean-”

“I _do_ mean,” Lotor confirms with a dangerous growl. “You end this little affair with the writer, or I’ll end _him.”_

As Lotor speaks the devil’s name he appears, Keith hammering his fist against the locked door and shouting – nay, _screaming –_ through the wood, loud enough that they can even hear the echo of his shouts in the stairwell. Lance’s mouth drops open and Lotor looks at the door, unimpressed.

He turns Lance’s face back to look at him, seeing the fear amidst the searing blue of his eyes. “It’s your choice,” He tells him and releases his tight hold, stepping back from where Lance slumps against the wall, needing its support through the fog clouding his aching head. “Him, or me,” He reminds him, sitting at the table once more and sipping his wine absurdly calmly, raising his eyebrows impatiently and jerking his jaw towards the door. “Well? Go on – before someone comes to see what all the fuss is about.”

Lance pushes himself to stand on shaky legs, doing as he’s told and crossing the living room. He reaches out for the doorknob, catching sight of the already-bruising bands now circling his wrist, dotted with red crescent moons where Lotor’s nails have drawn blood. He unrolls his shirt sleeves down to his wrists and buttons them to keep the bruises from sight, running a hand through his hair in a fruitless attempt to make himself presentable before opening the door.

The diamond necklace sits on full display, nothing more than an iron collar shackled around his throat.

*****

Keith almost falls on his face as the door suddenly swings open, off-balance as his fist continues forwards through the air as opposed to slamming against the wood as expected.

His voice breaks off in his dry throat as he sees Lance standing in the doorway: the singer is keeping the edge of the door pressed close to his side, cutting off Keith’s view into the flat and any idea he had of entering. Over Lance’s shoulder Keith can see the Duke sitting comfortably, watching them with a glass of wine in his hand as though he were in the familiar confines of the Café de L’Altea and their conversation was to be broadcast from the stage.

“L-Lance-” Keith gasps, winded from taking the stairs as fast as he had. “Are you- are you okay?”

“I’m fine Keith.” Lance’s voice is detached and cold, the tone foreign and unsettling coming from Lance’s mouth.

“I think you should-”

“Why are you here?” Lance asks him, his face carefully devoid of expression. It chills Keith’s core, this emotionless husk of a person standing before him when he knows just how vibrant Lance truly was.

“To- to help,” Keith splutters, not understanding the strange energy buzzing between the singer and the Duke and struggling to put his explanation of concern into words. “To protect you from-”

“Does it look like I need help?”

Keith’s eyes pass between Lance and Lotor, who sits in the background wearing a confident smirk, eyes glittering in excitement as he listens to the pair of them. “I saw-”

“I don’t know what you _saw,”_ Lance cuts him off, “And frankly I don’t care. I think it’s time you minded your own business and went home.”

The confusion is mixing with a terrified desperation in Keith’s core: he doesn’t understand, doesn’t recognise who the person standing in front of him is, doesn’t comprehend what this tense atmosphere means. “Lance-” He whispers with a plea for clarity, reaching out towards the singer.

Lance flinches back as though Keith’s hand is red hot iron, a quick flash of fear crossing those eyes before he stamps the emotion from existence and returns the hollow look to his gaze. “Whatever you _think_ was going on between us is over,” Lance says firmly.

He feels the ground shifting beneath his feet, his stomach turning, but he catches Lotor’s smug look and Keith frowns, glaring at the Duke before looking back to Lance. “What did he say to you-?”

“Didn’t I already tell you to mind your own business?” Lance spits. “What happens between me and my _fiancé_ has nothing to do with you.”

Keith steps forwards, lowering his voice to a pitch the Duke cannot overhear. “You don’t need to be afraid of him, Lance. We can-”

Lance’s face is one of disgust as his hand hits forward, his palm striking Keith in the centre of his chest with a brutal force. The wind is knocked from his lungs and Keith stumbles back, tripping over his own feet and landing hard on the ground. He gazes up at Lance with wide eyes, gasping for breath, too stunned to return to his feet.

“There is no _we,”_ Lance growls down at him, knuckles white where his hand grips the edge of the door as though the wood is the only thing keeping him standing. “There never was, and there never _will be.”_

“I don’t-” Keith wheezes, “I don’t understand-”

“You’re a _toy,_ Keith,” Lance spits, the words said with a violent hatred. “A distraction: I can’t believe you were stupid enough to let me convince you otherwise.”

“Lance-” Keith has no idea what he wants to say: the words are on the tip of his tongue but out of reach, unable to put the feeling of dread and fear into words. His fears, his darkest nightmares of Lance, they’re coming true with each word out of the singer’s mouth. He’s a fool, an idiot, a-

“It’s embarrassing – letting yourself actually believe that I could want you.”

Keith refused to listen to Lance’s words: he won’t let himself believe that, after all of this, it was all a lie. He couldn’t-

He _can’t_ believe it: he _won’t_ believe it.

“You said it yourself: you’re a mistake.” Lance’s stare stays cold and focused on the writer still lying pathetically on the ground beneath him.

Keith shakes his head weakly, refusing to give up these feelings he _knew_ weren’t a mere delusion, “We weren’t a mistake.”

“You mean nothing to me.” Lance speaks slowly, letting each word land with a heavy impact before saying another, blow after blow against Keith’s rapidly beating heart.

“Lance-”

“I _feel_ nothing for you.”

“Don’t-”

“You _are_ nothing, Keith.” Rage and hurt and disgust rolls off of Lance in painful waves, the singer breathing heavily as he makes sure to deliver each and every scathing word. He’s looking deep into Keith’s eyes, silently daring Keith to find the lie in his words. But Keith sees nothing in the blue depths of his eyes, a terrifying blank slate of indifference that sears itself into Keith’s memories with blinding clarity.

“Please,” Keith whispers, some part of him hoping – praying – that this is all an act. That Lance is going to burst into laughter at the prank before turning around and rejecting the Duke: a twisted drama of the singer’s own concoction. The spoken whispers of their future, the exhilaration of letting themselves be together after so much denial and stubborn refusal – Keith can’t let it go, doesn’t know if he can even survive its loss-

_Don’t you know that you’re toxic…?_

_I don’t belong here…_

_It’s easy to pretend…_

Lance is terrifyingly silent.

Somehow the silence is worst than the words: at least when he was speaking it meant it wasn’t over, not yet – that there was still a chance for Keith to counter his words. But Lance is looking down at him with a carefully-crafted stoicism, a look of disgust as though Keith were a lowly cockroach he should crush beneath his heel, his lips pressed tightly together to keep from saying one word more.

_Take it all, but you never give…_

_The words are going to bleed from me…_

_Rose gardens filled with thorns…_

“Don’t do this, Lance,” Keith says weakly. He can’t even call it pleading: the fear, the _terror,_ the sheer disbelief, it has risen up and taken him for itself, wrapping tightly around him in an earth-shattering constricting pressure. His words, his _begging –_ it holds no conviction as Lance’s words turn his feelings of passion into those of embarrassment. He’s been slashed down to the bone to bleed out on the floor beneath Lance, red spilling from his body, taking each ill-conceived shred of hope he had felt being with Lance with it to leave him hollow and ashamed.

_I’m not that innocent…_

_I’m so alone…_

_I don’t know which way to go…_

One final word: one last attempt to shatter this new reality, to end this nightmare, to return them back to the morning that felt like an eternity ago where they shared a bed and Lance had held him tight and they promised their futures to one another.

“Please...”

_You don’t care if it’s wrong or if it is right._

Lance grimaces as he allows himself one final look at the writer, forcing himself to say the final words of his performance before closing the door and locking it from the other side, as though trying to hide from the lies he had told.

“You shouldn’t have forgotten that this was a game.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am truly sorry for what I've done.


	11. Chandelier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys try to come to terms with what's been said, and Lotor makes some changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Saturday baby!! 
> 
> I'm so sorry for last week - trust me, it hurt me as much to write it as it did for you to read it. You are not alone in your pain. 
> 
> This week we return to the glorious Postmodern Jukebox with their gorgeous, minor version of 'Chandelier', found [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RhXWZoqkb_Y)  
> They also have another [version,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9ilBHkH9Io) but I personally prefer the drama of Dani Armstrong's cover (and we'll just ignore the presence of an electric guitar that definitely isn't period appropriate...)  
> I also like the idea that Lance had originally written a different bridge to the song, but in the moment changed it to the as-performed version (just in case there is any confusion there, oops...)
> 
> (Insert meme here) Was anyone going to point out just how heart-breaking the lyrics to Chandelier are, or was I supposed to find that out by myself??? Sia hiding some painful lyrics with her upbeat tempos over here.

His body can’t keep functioning for one more second. As Lance closes the door his back hits the wood and he sinks to the floor, drawing his knees to his chest and stifling his noises as he shakes. The look on Keith’s face as he had said those awful words-

_‘You are a mistake-’_

_‘You are nothing-’_

_‘This was a game-’_

He felt sick: a nausea, deep in his stomach, twisting and coiling, frothing angrily as the words played through his mind, over and over. He wanted to vomit the guilt, reach down his throat and rip it loose, open himself up with a knife: anything to get the horrible sickness out of him.

Was Keith still beyond the door, too stunned to move? Had he made himself stand and walk home, wounded by Lance’s convincing lies?

Lance wanted desperately to rip the stupid necklace from his throat and run after Keith, never to see Lotor again. But the Duke’s threat still rang alarmingly clear in his ears: Lance could not be allowed Keith, by any means necessary.

He couldn’t wholly blame Lotor: Lance had made this bed, and to keep Keith safe he would lie in it. He had given his future up so easily before, he could do it again for someone he lo-

Liked. For someone he would have liked to build a life with. Keith could have been the best thing to ever happen to him, and he would keep him safe to ensure the writer could pour that goodness out into the world. Keith would be the best thing to ever happen for someone else, and Lance would be damned if Keith didn’t get to see that day.

Lotor was watching on without saying a word as Lance trembled and bit his lip against the sobs. The Duke sipped at his wine, pleased with the evening’s outcome: he had never expected the singer to defy him in such a manner, and he had almost been impressed with the backbone he had grown just to sneak around behind his back. Lotor could very nearly say that he somewhat enjoyed the act of rebellion, only because it allowed him to squash it so easily: he had suspected such a day would come with his naïve fiancé, and now that the doubts had revealed themselves he could keep them firmly under lock and key. From this point he could get their lives back on track, neither having to worry about what else was coming because Lance had wholly and completely submitted to being _his._

His nose raised in the air, lips pursing in a grimace, “I think dinner is burning.”

His fiancé remained on the floor, seemingly dead to the world, arms wound tight around his legs to keep himself curled in a small, protective ball.

Lotor frowned, not pleased with his lack of response. “Lance,” He snapped, watching the singer flinch with his sharp tone. “Get up and attend to dinner.”

He thought he was going to continue to defy him, remaining in a pathetic heap on the floor, but Lotor was pleased to see Lance rise to his feet in a robotic manner, eyes downcast as he walked to the kitchen to do as he was told.

Lance watched the smoking pot bubbling away, the acrid vapours stinging his eyes and making him want to cough. He felt a primal need to touch the soft flesh of his palm to the searing pot, searching for something that could ground him back in his body. He felt light and detached, seeming to move in slow motion as he removed the pot from the heat and gave it a half-hearted stir, dispensing the mess onto a plate with little ceremony, red sauce splattering the counter-top. He glanced up, catching a spectre of himself reflected in the glass of the window, pale and transparent, the sight of that necklace at his throat making his stomach turn over once again.

If he looked out the window, would Keith be there? Somehow always close-by when Lance was struggling, ready and willing to help – not because he expected to get anything back, but because he was a good and decent person who _cared._

Lance didn’t let himself near the streaked glass, fearing the disappointment of seeing an empty street would be enough to stop his heart once and for all. His body felt strange as he returned to the living room, the assembly of flesh seeming so foreign to him as he made it walk towards Lotor. He was a stranger in his own body, the flesh and mind disconnected entities from one another, body functioning of its own will as Lance’s thought-process became cold and foggy.

He practically threw the plate down in front of Lotor, the Duke peering at the plate with disgust. “What do you call this?”

“Dinner,” Lance says flatly, “Bon Appetit.”

The singer turns to leave, seeking the refuge of his own space. “You’re not joining me?” Lotor calls after him.

“Not hungry,” Is his curt response as he escapes into his room, firmly closing the door after him to cut himself off from Lotor – for now. He knew he couldn’t outrun his choices, not this time: he just needed the Duke’s smug eyes off of him while he came to terms with the evening’s events.

He thought that being alone would lift the fog: that retreating to somewhere completely his own would help him return to his body, make him feel a bit more present. But he only felt more disconnected than ever, looking with sorrow to the bed that was still left unmade after being shared with Keith.

He collapsed down onto the bed fully clothed before he lost the trace of willpower remaining and crumpled to the floor. Before succumbing to the beckoning duvet he forces himself to remove the heinous collar from his neck, its weight seeming to increase as he fumbled to unhook the clasp with numb fingers. He desperately wanted to just rip the thing from his throat, let the diamonds clatter to the floor, but he knew better than to push the Duke’s patience any further: this was Lotor’s world now, and he needed to accept his place within it. He was going to be the pretty husband with the extravagant necklace who told the world how generous Lotor was and how kindly he cared for Lance and how he could never live without him. He was going to make others jealous of what he had, make them wish they could trade places, because there was nothing Lotor enjoyed more than the envy of a crowd.

He drops the necklace to the table at his bedside and finally buries himself into the duvet, the fabric all too light and thin to give him the true level of comfort he required. His arms circled one of his pillows and pulled it close so he could hide his face in its down, his embrace crushing the feathers with its force as he tried to pretend it was anything other than a sack of cloth filled with feathers.

He took a deep breath through his nose, feeling the heavy ache in his chest, and it was then that the tears came as he noticed just how strongly the fabric smelled of _Keith_. They welled and spilled, staining his cheeks and soaking the fabric, sliding down his nose as he pressed his face further into the pillow to stifle the sounds. But this only made the tears come harder as the scent intensified, the smell of the pillow almost strong enough to trick him into believing the writer was there with him, lying at his side like nothing had happened.

_Almost._

*****

It was no secret that Keith hated Mondays. But this Monday? It took the cake.

This Monday, the laws of physics bent and warped as he felt the Earth’s gravity increase over just him and his bed. The air was heavy and kept him pinned to the mattress, breath short and strained beneath the weight as a distant part of him told him to get up and begin the process of moving on. This wasn’t the first time someone had hurt him, and it wouldn’t be the last: get over it.

But he couldn’t.

Because it never got easier: these people promised they would stay and managed to trick you into caring about them, and just when that happens they disappear.

He didn’t know if he trusted what Lance had said to him – the scathing words that had left him sitting dumbstruck on the floor of that hallway for longer than he cared to admit – but it seemed it didn’t matter. Believe them or not, they cut all the same: with razor-tipped edges they rebounded in his head and sliced his waking thoughts to unravelling fragments. He couldn’t keep his thought process linear, failing to make sense of what had happened before those words swooped in and cut him to shreds.

_‘You are a mistake-’_

_‘You are nothing-’_

_‘This was a game-’_

He didn’t know if he believed them.

And deeper still they cut.

*****

Shiro knocking at his door sets his heart racing, his body a heavy tomb of stone as the muscle beats frantically in his chest. Don’t come in, don’t come in, don’t-

“Keith?” Shiro asks tentatively through the door, “You want some dinner?”

He was tempted to keep quiet, to hide from the world in the self-made darkness of his room and pretend he wasn’t home, but he knew he couldn’t fool Shiro. And he _needed_ to fool Shiro if he was to keep the hacking pain tearing him apart to himself. He couldn’t be allowed to share it, to let it shred his throat, his voice, as he tried to share it. And for what? It wouldn’t make him feel better. He was going to be selfish with his pain because sharing it would only make it more real and let the pain grow, and he knew he couldn’t take anymore.

“No thanks,” He says, cursing how his dry throat cracks. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t _drank_ anything, not since Lance had said those words. But the signs his body would usually give to demand such things were masked by the aching, carving pain in his chest. Be it growling belly or pounding headache, they paled into nothing beneath this new hurt: his body’s ability to handle pain was at capacity, anything over and above was cast by the wayside.

“You’re sure?” Shiro asks. He doesn’t suspect anything is wrong, not quite: he just has a worry in his gut that, although mild, is starting to grow the longer Keith remains in his room. “Adam’s cooking,” He coaxes, knowing Keith’s weakness for his boyfriend’s culinary skills.

The answer is a curt, but not unkind, “I’m sure.”

The words have a tone of finality and Shiro relents, instead standing in the kitchen and wafting the scents of Adam’s cooking in the direction of Keith’s door using the tray Adam was just about to use.

Adam rolls his eyes, keeping his voice low, “He’s probably just tired: he’s been working a lot recently.”

“Maybe,” Shiro nods, still fanning furiously: surely Keith couldn’t refuse the call of sizzling garlic?

“What exactly is it that’s worrying you?” Adam asks him.

“I don’t know…” Shiro admits, sighing and lowering the tray he had utilised as a fan, returning it to the table. Adam snatched the tray and moved it out of Shiro’s reach, making sure his manic boyfriend didn’t steal it again before he could use it. “I just…something’s wrong.”

“You don’t know that,” Adam consoles him.

“Well, it’s certainly not _normal,”_ Shiro presses, lowering his chin to rest in his hands. “Something has been up with him for weeks – he’s never been this secretive before.”

“He’s _alwa_ ys secretive-”

“With _me,”_ Shiro amends. “I can usually read him so easily, but recently? It’s like he’s a stranger: I just know he’s keeping something from me.”

“He’s an adult,” Adam says kindly, removing one of the hands Shiro is leaning on to take it gently in his grasp. “When he’s ready to talk about it, he knows you’ll be there.”

“I hope so,” Shiro nibbles at his lip, casting a glance to the firmly shut door.

“Just give him time,” Adam places a sweet kiss to his cheek, giving him a small, encouraging smile. “These things have a way of coming to the surface eventually: you just need to be patient.”

Shiro nodded in agreement: he knew that what Adam said was the logical approach, the _best_ approach he could take right now. Because what could he do, storm into Keith’s room and demand-?

He stops himself there, too fearful to even _imagine_ the reaction that would earn him. So he forces himself to remain sitting at the table, absentmindedly drumming his hands against the wood as he found his eye drawn to the closed door over and over again.

*****

He didn’t expect to be snapped back to reality any time soon, succumbing to the aching existence of vegetating into his mattress, but as the door to the apartment slams shut and Shiro can be heard swearing loudly Keith is on his feet and reaching to open his bedroom door, concern fuelling him as he practically runs to see what is wrong.

Shiro was _seething:_ it was like Keith could see the coils of anger writhing beneath the dancer’s skin, bulging and pushing to be released, unleashed on the word with fisted hands and vicious words. Shiro stalked back and forwards as he paced the living room, his hands raising and lowering as though he couldn’t afford to keep them still. He muttered to himself, murmuring curse word after curse word, his feet pounding a path into the floor boards.

It had been a long time since Keith had seen such a reaction from his friend, and he knocked his entrance against the wall to get Shiro’s attention. Shiro’s head snapped to look at him, never stopping in his movements.

“Sorry if you were sleeping,” Shiro says, breathless in his contained fury.

Keith shrugs, “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“Says the guy who hasn’t left his room in two days.” Shiro looks remorseful as he catches Keith’s slight flinch from the accusing words. “Sorry – again,” He says honestly, “I’m- I’m just-”

“Mad?” Keith suggests.

Shiro nods, his repeated path almost making Keith feel dizzy. “I’m sorry, I just need a minute. I just need to calm down-”

Keith crosses his arms and leans against the wall. “You’re allowed to be angry, Shiro.”

Shiro scoffs at that, “Not over something so…so…so trivial!”

Feeling himself mature in what could only be a temporary capacity, Keith sat himself at their table and crossed his arms on the wood. “Want to talk about it?”

Shiro gives him a surprised look, only seen for a moment before Shiro’s back turns to him amidst his continuous pacing. “You won’t care-”

“I _will_ care,” Keith counters, raising an eyebrow at him.

“It’s stupid-”

“Come _on,_ Shiro. After all these years of telling me to open up and not just punch the nearest wall, don’t go being a hypocrite now.”

Shiro’s nostrils flare as Keith’s words hit home and his angry pacing stutters. He mentally debates for a moment over what he’s going to do before huffing and sitting across from Keith. “Just tell me honestly,” He says, pining Keith with a serious look. “Did you know?”

“Did I know…?” Keith echoed, needing a suitable ending to the question.

“About the play changes?” Shiro leans back in his chair, his hands moving with his words, still laced with anger that he seems to be trying to shake free. “I keep going back and forth on it, because you _must_ have known. But you would have told me – at least I think you would have told me. You could have told me, – you know that right? I’d rather have heard it from you than-”

“Shiro,” Keith says calmly, unsure what tone of voice to use to help. He hadn’t seen Shiro this wound up in too many years to count, having long since casting aside the angst of a teenager starving to death on the streets. Nowadays he approached his troubling situations with a level head: Keith didn’t know what to _do_ about angry adult Shiro. As a teen he would have joined in with Shiro’s wrath just for the fun of it, but now he restrained himself to be more responsible, despite how that made his inner rebel crumble at the thought. “I need you to explain what’s wrong: I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The play-” Shiro starts, but notes Keith’s continuing confusion before righting himself. “I’m out.”

“Out?”

“Canned, fired, dismissed – I don’t know what you would call it. Coran came in when I was running some lines to tell me I wasn’t playing the Prince anymore. I’m out.”

Keith’s brow furrowed: despite how Shiro sought to clarify the situation it only seemed to get more and more murky in his eyes. “I don’t – why?”

“I don’t know,” Shiro sighs. He lets his hands drop onto his thighs and leans back into his chair, dejected. “I thought I was doing a good job… You really didn’t know?” He looks at Keith with an imploring gaze, praying that someone he trusted so much wouldn’t have gone behind his back to take something this promising from him.

Keith shook his head. “I had no idea,” He murmurs. “When…when did they decide this?”

Shiro shrugs, “Yesterday, I think. There was a meeting to finalise the ending apparently – you didn’t know?”

Concern is starting to bubble in Keith’s stomach, and he slowly shakes his head. “No – I evidently wasn’t invited.”

Shiro blanches slightly, neither of them able to understand just what this could mean.

“I’m sorry,” Keith says, the words sounding hollow. The feeling of guilt is back, building at the back of his throat and burning like bile. Because if he were a betting man – and once upon a time, he was – he would guess this had something to do with Duke Galran.

He remembers the smarmy look over Lance’s shoulder, practically _grinning_ as the singer rejected him out of seemingly nowhere. He thinks of the look of terror on Lance’s face as the Duke grabbed him, slamming him against the wall-

Whatever is going on, it doesn’t feel right.

“Coran sent me home,” Shiro continues, running a tired hand down his face. “Apparently I’ve been given the night off. ‘ _Give someone else some stage time’_ ,” He says, mocking the club-owner’s manner of speaking and sighing again, trying to loosen the hold of anger. “Everyone seemed to be whispering behind their hands, their eyes following me with suspicion and scrutiny, like they were casting their judgement and I have no idea what I’ve done wrong.”

“I don’t think _you_ did anything wrong,” Keith says truthfully, his mind growing troubled at the idea of what else may have changed in the short time he had been absent from the club. He makes his mind up and stands, shrugging his jacket on from where he carelessly discarded it the other evening when he had arrived home in a daze. “I’m going down there to talk to them.”

“No, don’t-” Shiro says, standing to stop his hot-headed flatmate. “The show will be starting soon. Just…just leave it alone, Keith. It’s fine – I’m just making a big deal out of nothing. I’ll get over it-”

“No,” Keith tells him firmly, pulling on his shoes with little ceremony. “This is _not_ your fault Shiro, and I won’t let them take it out on you.”

Shiro blinks, eyes narrowing slightly, “What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Keith says, yanking his greasy and tangled hair into a tie at the back of his head to keep it out of view and look somewhat presentable.

“Keith,” Shiro’s hand lands on his shoulder. He doesn’t grab Keith, forcing him to turn and look at him, but the weight of the hand is enough to stop Keith in his tracks.

He sighs and places his hand over Shiro’s before gently removing it. “I’m going to fix this for you,” He promises, lingering a moment before dropping Shiro’s hand and leaving the apartment.

*****

“Back of the line,” A bouncer – he thinks she’s called Zethrid – says without even looking at him in the eye.

Keith splutters, unsure what he should say first so his exclamations trip over themselves on his tongue: he’s never had to explain himself before now. “Um- It’s me, Keith?”

“Back of the line,” The bouncer repeats, crossing her arms across her chest in an attempt to look more imposing.

It works.

“I’m the writer – the playwright,” Keith tries to tell her, trying not to shrink down to hide in his jacket, feeling the glares cast his way from the people at the front of the line waiting to get inside.

“Back of the line, _playwright.”_ She says mockingly before turning and seeming to forget he even exists, allowing admittance to the couple at the front of the line.

Not sure what else to do Keith huffs and sticks his hands in his pockets, marching to join the end of the queue. He had tried banging on the staff door for someone to let him in, but at this time of day no one would hear the echoing knocking through the dressing room’s chaos: by now, everyone who should be inside would already be there.

Keith didn’t think too much of this: it had happened before, and he knew to just walk up to the front door to get in. The bouncers all knew his face, were happy to exchange pleasant – if not brief – banter with him.

But Zethrid had treated him coldly as he had approached her, watching him like he was a cockroach who had the audacity to step out into the daylight and deserved to be crushed for the insubordination.

He waited impatiently and grumbled under his breath, preparing what he would say to her when he got to the front of the queue. What was her problem – she’d never stopped him before. Must have been hit around the head one too many times by a customer that was having too much fun-

“Finally,” He grumbles as he reaches the front, striding forward only to be stopped by her thick arm.

“No entry,” She says with ground teeth.

“Pardon?” Keith says, voice echoing the shock he feels. “Is this- is this a joke?”

“I have been given explicit instructions not to allow admittance to one Mr Kogane,” Zethrid explains in a serious voice, “Outwith the allowed times stipulated by Coran and Duke Galran.”

“ _What?”_ He splutters. He feels himself making a scene as he refuses to move, the group behind him watching on with impatience as the time until curtain ticks away.

She checks a notebook in her hand, peering at him in a no-nonsense manner and quoting directly, “ ‘Mr Keith Kogane is hereby banned from the premises of the Café de L’Altea and may only be granted admittance between the hours of 9am and 12pm, only with the supervision of Coran Arus or any other designated party.”

This certainly didn’t clear anything up for him, Keith blinking dumbly before scowling. “Look, Zethrid, I just need 5 minutes-”

“No admittance,” She repeats firmly, putting the notebook away and flexing the broad muscles of her arms in an all too obvious warning. She fixes him with a stare that promises that he will regret the action to push her and, with a glare to the tall woman, Keith steps out of the line and away from the entrance. He watches on for a few more minutes with crossed arms, unsure what his next move should be. This didn’t make sense: he was the _playwright_ for the Café’s upcoming production, he kind of needed to be able to conduct his work on site.

It troubled him to think what Lotor had told Coran in order to convince him to keep Keith from being allowed entry, not to mention the mandated chaperone he had to be escorted by. Whatever it was, it must have been bad considering Coran had taken such drastic steps to keep Keith out of the club without even talking to him. Keith scowled, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the door from which he was denied entry.

He couldn’t just accept these new changes without a fight – what was he supposed to do now, just go home and hope this was all one big weird dream? He refused to accept his new world without a fight.

He cast a side-eyed glance to the alleyway where the staff door sat nestled: his previous knocking had gone unheeded, but at the moment it was the only entry into the club that didn’t involve going through a heavily-muscled bouncer.

With one final glare he left, slipping into the shadows of the alley and hiding himself from view.

He may have been refused at the main door, and ignored at the back, but that didn’t mean he was going to give up anytime soon. He would let his motivation for answers power him through the long evening’s wait: all he needed was just one performer to head home for the night to take advantage of the ajar door and slip inside. He just needed to be patient.

Lotor could do everything in his power to keep him away, but Keith wasn’t going to let him win so easily. 

*****

_‘Sun is up, I’m a mess._

_I’ve got to get out now, got to run from this._

_Here comes the shame, here comes the shame…’_

It felt weird, being the opening act for the evening. Coran usually liked to put him later in the line-up, knowing that he drew a crowd and wanting to keep them waiting for what they had come to see. But tonight Coran had changed the running order so that Lance was up, the first ahead of any other act.

“To let you get home, before it gets too late,” The club-owner had told him cryptically in a sympathetic tone of voice. Lance felt uneasy at his words, unsure what they meant but failing to ask for clarification.

_‘Throw them back, till I lose count.’_

It _hurts:_ every word out of his chest aches and tears at him. It didn’t matter how long ago he had written this song, how much time passed - the lyrics held the same pain they always had. He had never thought he would sing this song again, never thought he could build himself back up only to feel so empty and hopeless all over again.

It had been a surprise when he had managed to survive it the first time: he knew he wouldn’t be so lucky the second.

_‘I’m going to swing from the chandelier,_

_From the chandelier!_

_I’m going to live like tomorrow doesn’t exist,_

_Like it doesn’t exist!”_

And this was true: all these years later, these words were still true. Tomorrow didn’t matter, or the day after, or next week: he had given his signature on the dotted line and signed his life away. Nothing mattered now, not for him.

_‘I’m going to fly like a bird through the night,_

_Feel my tears as they dry,_

_I’m going to swing from the chandelier.’_

And the crowd gasps and grins, eyes wide and entranced, as he lets himself break just a little more on the stage. Because his pain, this raw _ache_ in his chest, sells the lyrics to them. They can’t look away as they watch what they think is the _act_ of a crumbling man, selling his pseudo-pain for their entertainment.

And he exists in a strange limbo as the music swells beneath his words, a world where he walks the tightrope of a panic attack. Where the fear, the _terror,_ the hopelessness – they engulf him, totally and completely. And he feels himself shutting down beneath their whispering – their _screaming –_ voices, turning numb and empty. But yet he can stand here and he can sing these words that only opens him up and sends the panic deeper into his being. Where he should have collapsed and fallen silent long before now, the terror gripping him like a virus and piloting his muscles, forcing the words out and keep reliving it all, forcing him to keep hurting and hurting and-

_‘I’m holding on for dear life._

_I won’t look down,_

_Won’t open my eyes.’_

It _hurts:_ it hurts him so badly and he simply wants to tumble into the darkness where he doesn’t have to feel the burn anymore, but the panic keeps him standing, white knuckles on the mic stand. His heavy collar presses against the top of his collarbone, seeming to enjoy pressing into the soft flesh of his throat and limit his breaths, a constant threat that glitters enticingly in the stage lighting.

_‘Keep my glass full until morning light,_

_Because I’m just holding on for tonight.’_

He feels the tears swell, their silent promise that if he lets them out he’ll be able to clarify his mind and think clearly again: that they’ll take the pain with them as they run down his cheeks. But he stamps out the urge because he knows it’s all a lie, a whisper of conniving hope that tries to raise him up only so he can fall again.

Because it’s not going to get better. Nothing is going to be better again, and he needed to let the stupid ideology go that his life could be anything other than it currently is. So he stamps out the urge and holds on to his tears, holds on to the pain so that he remembers that this is his way of being now and he was going to need to learn to deal with it.

He’s supposed to sing his final verse that the band is expecting but he’s losing himself, feeling himself unravel as the terror pulls and nips at him, tearing pieces of himself away to feed the crowd who still clamour for more from him. The band’s music swells to meet his line of thinking, the fixated promise that his world view is narrowing down into, the single goal that will get him through:

_‘I’m just holding on for tonight.’_

He’s shouting, _screaming,_ promising himself that he just has to get through the remaining few hours of today. And then he’ll get through tomorrow night. Over and over, just reaching the end of the day when he can finally collapse and dream about places he’d rather be and people he’d rather be sharing a bed with. The band moves with him, swelling beneath the desperation in his voice, Matt’s eyes sparking from how powerful the song is becoming but Hunk casting him worried looks over his shoulder.

Lance lets the song end, the silence filled with the rush of the words and pain returning and battering holes in his ribcage, too loud – too encompassing – to even hear the applause of the crowd through.

He’s lucky the curtains close before he collapses to his knees, the performers around him gasping and crowding around, unsure of what they should do to help.

Hunk pushes through them in a stern manner unlike his usual-self, “Back away, you vultures.” With strong arms he scoops Lance up against his chest and walks him off stage and away from their whispers.

Coran watches on with wide eyes, opening his mouth-

“Introduce the next act,” Hunk orders firmly, not even waiting around for a reply.

Lance feels disconnected and cold as Hunk escapes the noise and the clamour, not speaking a word as the singer trembles against his chest, his breath heaving with strained gasps.

He leads them to a private dressing room that Lance is intimately familiar with, making him freeze and unable to catch his breath for a moment as Hunk settles him down on the sofa, sitting him up and kneeling in front of him before taking Lance’s face in his large and gentle hands.

“Follow me, remember?” Hunk tells him, keeping eye contact and taking deep and exaggerated breaths, leading Lance by example. Lance does his best to tune his stuttering and shallow breaths to the calming rhythm of Hunk’s, trying to take solace in the warm hands holding his face-

“In,” Hunk says gently, noting that he was losing Lance’s attention and drawing him back to his breathing. “And out. Good – again.”

The fog and static of panic begins to fade to a manageable level, Hunk smiling as Lance’s breaths begin to resemble his own, the trembling slowly beginning to ebb.

Hunk looks at him, drawing him in with those big brown eyes that are decadent pools of milk chocolate, comforting and warm and sweet. “Want me to keep going?” He checks in.

Lance shakes his head, barely perceptible if not for Hunk’s hands on his face. Hunk’s hands lower but settle over Lance’s fisted fingers, trying to relax them from where he’s digging the nails into the soft flesh of his palm. Lance feels self-conscious for a moment, terrified of the long sleeves of his shirt riding up to show the purple bands of Lotor’s anger. For a moment, he’s _terrified_ of what Hunk would say to him, and that realisation somehow makes him feel even worse.

“I’m-” He croaks.

“Do _not,”_ Hunk says firmly, but not unkindly, “Tell me you are sorry.”

Lance nods, closing his mouth and thinking fondly of all the times Hunk had told him he shouldn’t apologise because he’s in pain. It’s a hard thing to remember – he’s glad he has such a great friend that can remind him when he can’t do it for himself.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hunk prompts.

Lance’s head drops forward so that Hunk can’t see the expression on his face. He feels the tears and he refuses to let them out: he’s lost so much control already, like _hell_ he’ll let the tears fall unbidden. “I do.” His voice is cracking, throat dry and sore from how hard he pushed himself on stage, how he let the words shred his vocal cords as he tried everything to remove their meaning from his chest. “But I _can’t.”_

“Okay,” Hunk says. “Why do you feel like you can’t?”

Lance takes a minute to formulate an answer, because there’s so many ways he could answer his friend. “It’s…not safe,” He says uneasily.

“You don’t feel safe?”

“Not _me,”_ He says, raising his head and just wishing Hunk could look into his head and just see all of the thoughts he couldn’t voice.

“Who?” Hunk is sincere and patient: right now Lance is the only thing that exists in the whole world and he’s deserving of the entirety of Hunk’s attention.

Lance nibbles at his lower lip, worrying it between teeth to the point of blood. “Everyone.”

“What’s going to happen?” Hunk pushes gently. “Why are you worried?”

“I’m going-” He licks at his lips, “I’m going to destroy everything. You’re all- you’re all going to suffer. Because of me.”

Hunk’s apprehensive face falls into one of sadness, not giving Lance unwanted pity but rather empathy for his pain. “I don’t believe that.”

“You should,” Lance says.

“So you’ve told me, multiple times.” Hunk has a small smile on his face, “And what do I always tell you?”

Lance mirrors the curl in his lips, flashing back to so many conversations that were so similar yet so different to this one. “Life is already chaos: who am I to dictate its destruction?”

“If things are going to be destroyed, then they’ll be destroyed,” Hunk says slowly. “But not because of you, or your choices, or your actions. They’ll be destroyed because the world is inherently a spiteful bitch. And when only dust and ashes remain, we will rise and make something new.”

“How are you always so positive?” Lance says weakly, letting that smile stay and grow a little bit stronger.

Hunk chuckles and shifts to sit next to Lance on the couch, throwing a heavy and comforting arm over his shoulders. “I wouldn’t say that quote is particularly optimistic. I just like to remind you that the world won’t end just because you’re breathing its air.”

“I can’t tell you exactly what’s wrong,” Lance sighs resting an elbow on his knee and leaning his cheek against curled knuckles, staring at the ground.

“How about I try to guess?” Hunk suggests, and Lance nods: just because he can’t bring himself to say the words doesn’t mean he’ll stop his friend from trying to find them.

Hunk doesn’t let his worry show, doesn’t let the questions he truly wants to ask come to his tongue. Because the products of the day’s rumour mill were troubling, and he didn’t know what to make of them just yet. He had always tried to avoid such conversations, paying it little mind, but this particular tale was vicious, taking hold of the horde and spreading from mouth to mouth like a disease. And with something so clearly troubling Lance, he was afraid that these circulating rumours could have some truth to them.

“Does this have anything to do with Keith?” He suggests, noting how Lance stiffens beneath his arm and nods.

“Something…bad, with Keith?”

Lance looks torn before answering, “Sort of…”

“Okay,” Hunk nods, scared he’s pushing too far as he asks, “Did Keith…did Keith do something bad – to you?”

_I heard Keith kissed him-_

_I heard Keith forced himself on him-_

_I heard Keith hit him when he said no-_

_I heard that it happened in the club-_

_I heard Lance begged him to stop-_

_I heard that Keith didn’t listen-_

He can see the look on Lance’s face crumble, and for a moment Hunk feels an unfamiliar rush of rage in his chest at the thought of his friend being hurt so. “No,” Lance says wistfully. “No, he didn’t.”

“Okay,” Hunk says slowly, feeling that raging fire quieten down to a smoulder. He tries to read his friend, trying to understand this reaction, especially in the face of such horrifying rumours. “Does it have something to do with this?” He inclines his hand towards the new piece of jewellery around Lance’s throat, avoiding touching it.

Lance nods, adam’s apple bobbing against the metal.

And Hunk knows where a gift like that would have come from – where such rumours would have come from.

He asks, “Did Lotor do something bad?” And he sees how Lance crumbles in on himself, bringing his knees up to his chest to hug them to his chest and hide his face.

“He found out,” Lance says weakly, his voice muffled by the fabric.

Hunk is about to ask until it clicks. The shushed laughter he had thought he had imagined early in the morning, the lingering looks when they lowered their guards and they hadn’t caught themselves yet, the vitality with which Lance smiled recently, as though someone had blown a new breath of life into him-

It all connects in Hunk’s mind, and he can’t even be surprised at his discovery because it’s so _obvious_ – Lance’s closest confidant for three years, how had he not connected the dots sooner?

He’s a fool, having missed the anguish his friend was dealing with by himself. “Lotor was mad?”

“Furious,” Lance grumbles, tightening the hold around himself. The shirt sleeve rides up and Hunk can’t help but see the edge of a bruise peek out, but he doesn’t say anything as his gut twists. “But it doesn’t matter now: it’s over. It’s all over.”

And he doesn’t know why this is his most pressing question, but Hunk asks him, “Why?”

“Because there’s no such thing as happy endings.” Lance turns to rest his cheek on his knees and looks at Hunk with eyes that seem glassy with tears, but not one of them falls. “All I can do is keep him safe.”

And Lance doesn’t need to expand, because Hunk was more than familiar with the workings of the Galran family. The Duke’s father, Duke Zarkon before his son had taken over the family title, had once had the whole of Paris held in an iron hold: police on the payroll, lining the pockets of politicians. The hold was a lot less noticeable nowadays, but it was still there all the same.

Hunk doesn’t say anything, just tightens his hold and pulls Lance into a tight hug, letting the singer collapse against him to seek whatever comfort he could find.

“I’m sorry,” He tells him, again refusing to give pity.

Lance takes a deep breath to steady himself, grounding himself with Hunk’s breath and the beating of his heart beneath his ear. “Don’t be,” He says sadly. “It’s the way of the world. I just wish things could be different.”

It’s not long before Lance sits up and physically gives himself a shake, telling Hunk he should be getting back to the stage: they must be missing his piano skills by now. Matt had likely had to jump on the keys and would be having a panic over Hunk’s too-quick chord progressions, the predominantly-brass player standing by the argument that he only struggled because Hunk’s hands were so freakishly large.

“You’re sure?” Hunk asks him, unsure about leaving his friend right now.

“Go,” Lance promises. “I just want to go home and think for a while.”

Hunk nods and stands to leave, lingering in the doorway to offer one last reassuring smile. “Life is chaos?” He asks him, watching how Lance can’t help but sport his fond smile in response.

“Who am I to dictate its destruction?” His answer is quick and familiar, but the words lack a certain hopefulness that Lance usually couldn’t say the words without.

*****

Keith doesn’t know if he’s gone numb from the chill of the night air, or from the fire of his motivation dwindling as he waited in the alley. He remained primed and at the ready, waiting to the side of the door so he could slip inside at a moment’s notice. He just needed someone to leave already!

He knew that the show was a while away from finishing, but that didn’t placate his rapidly growing impatience. He had gone over what he wanted to say in a hundred different scenarios he could be walking into, the words he couldn’t wait to say to Lotor’s stupid, smug face. He just needed to get inside already-!

The door begins to open and Keith’s eyes widen, his muscles tensing in preparation. This is his chance-

It swings open and a performer steps out, freezing as he sees Keith pop out from the shadows. Keith stops too, standing in front of Lance with an open mouth as the door swings shut behind the singer with a loud slam.

“…Lance?” He asks, as though he doesn’t believe the singer could actually be there, standing before him in the flesh.

“H-Hey,” Lance says with a shaky voice, his eyes flitting up and down the alley as though he’s considering shouting for help, taking a small step back before seeming to remember the door had swung closed at his back. He looks cornered and trapped, hand reaching back to grasp a door handle he knows can’t help him.

“Are you- are you alright?” Keith should be crumbling in front of the man who rejected him so heartlessly, or at least not caring for his wellbeing. But Lance looks so scared, so small, cowering before him as though the writer would ever do something to hurt him.

“That’s not important,” Lance says with clipped words, those eyes still darting to scour the alleyway for any more forms hiding in the shadows. “What are you doing here?”

Keith blinks, bringing himself somewhat back to reality and his plan to infiltrate the club before being so easily distracted. “I’m here to find out why I’ve been banned from the club.”

“You’re banned?” Lance asks, surprise in his tone. He had noticed Keith’s lack of attendance that evening, but had assumed it was due to the horrible, horrible things he had said to him a couple of days beforehand. “Why?”

“Ask your fiancé,” Keith says with a hard tone. “I’m not allowed in the building without a chaperone – he’s got Coran on his side too.”

“Coran?” Lance had wondered about the club-owner’s true motives for having moved the line-up for the evening’s show: did it have something to do with Keith? But it didn’t make sense: why would Coran pick sides, especially without taking the opportunity to talk to Keith? The man had always employed an ‘innocent until proven guilty’ ideology: what could Lotor have told him to make him act first and ask questions later? “Look, Keith-”

“Are you okay?”

Lance blinks dumbly, expecting the tears to come before remembering how deep he has pushed them down. He needed to be cold, to remember to keep Keith beyond arm’s reach. “I’m fine-”

“He’s not here,” Keith lowers his voice. “You can talk to me – you know that right?”

Did he know that? How could he – Lotor was an incredibly well-connected man from an incredibly well-connected family. Reputation was everything to him, and Lance more than understood the lengths he would go to in order to protect it. He scours the alley, searching for spying bodies in the darkness, waiting with baited breath for him to make his next, and final, betrayal.

“I told you already,” Lance says with a sigh – without Lotor actively watching him his desperation to tell the lie feels diminished. But he has to try and convince Keith that he needs to leave him alone. “I don’t want this - I don’t want _you_.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Lance feels like Keith is crowding into his space, where in reality the writer hasn’t moved from where the pair had first frozen when seeing the other. But he feels that magnetism of Keith’s drawing him in and has to steel his spine to keep from stepping forwards to grab him hold him close, wrapped up in that comforting scent that was rapidly disappearing from his bed. “You should go,” Lance’s voice is barely a breath. He licks at his lips as he feels the paranoia beginning to build, anxiety humming its low buzz in his brain that makes thinking more difficult, “While you still can.”

Keith cocks his head at him, trying to understand his strange, strained tone. “Is that a threat?”

“I hope not,” Lance tells him in earnest, his skin starting to crawl. He decides he’s going to barrel past Keith and escape before the writer can stop him, but as he raises a hand to correct the bag strap cutting into his shoulder Keith’s eyes narrow and his hand darts out, seizing Lance’s forearm with firm fingers.

“Let go-!” He whispers with dread, terrified of what Keith’s seen.

But Keith isn’t looking at him: he’s looking at the sliver of skin that was revealed as the cuff of Lance’s shirt shifted with his movement. He’s staring down at the bruised skin, still marred with red crescent moons of where nails had dug in viciously, and looking as though he’s found proof that what he watched through Lance’s window really happened: that Lotor had indeed grabbed the singer and thrown him up against the wall, that it wasn’t all a dream.

“That son of a-”

“Keith, don’t!” Lance panics, trying to pull his arm back. But Keith is fixated, glaring down at his skin as though he could make the bruises disappear with force of will alone.

“I’ll kill him.”

“They’re _nothing,”_ Lance snaps and manages to tear his arm free, holding it to his chest in protection and stepping back as far as he can to stay out of Keith’s reach.

The fear on Lance’s face is enough to drag Keith from that place of blazing white anger: he doesn’t know if the fear is directed at him or if it’s for him, but either way seeing Lance’s face pale and taut clears the rage from Keith’s mind and he can think clearly again, feeling awful for grabbing Lance just like the Duke had.

“We should go,” Keith says, not considering the weight of what he’s truly suggesting. But he doesn’t need to think that far ahead, because right now all he wants is for he and Lance to get out of here, together: they can figure the rest out later.

“Where?” Lance says quietly, “Where could we possibly go?”

“Anywhere,” Keith breathes, begging silently for Lance to place his bet on the two of them.

But he shakes his head sadly, defeated. “He would find us,” He says pitifully, whispered words reminding himself of what’s at stake. He takes a steadying breath, looking at Keith with sorrowful eyes. “There’s nothing we can do, Keith. I’ve made my choice: please, _please_ respect it.”

Keith opens his mouth to argue, to plead his point, to do _something._ But Lance’s begging eyes stop him short because, no matter how much he wanted this to be real, he couldn’t drag Lance kicking and screaming after him. He couldn’t force Lance to give up everything, to leave everything behind, for _him._ Lance had made a choice: granted it had been made in fear, but he couldn’t disregard it and force Lance to do as he wanted. In such a world, he would be no different from Lotor.

He feels pathetic as he whispers, “I don’t want to lose you,” his hand raising to rest against Lance’s cheek.

Lance presses into the touch, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment to savour the warmth of Keith’s fingers for all-too brief a moment before forcing himself to grip Keith’s wrist and lower his arm. “You have to,” He says, letting his fingers go limp so Keith’s arm falls from his grasp. “It’s safer this way.”

Finally he remembers himself and forces his way past the writer, keeping his head focused on the ground and marching up the alley. He expects Keith to try to stop him, to yell after him or even try and grab him again. But Keith stays standing where Lance left him, watching silently as the singer leaves him behind. Because he’s trying to do as Lance asked: he’s _trying_ to respect his choice, he’s _trying_ to accept this loss.

But he can’t – not so easily. With a scowl he glares at the closed staff door, his patience reimbued as he returns to his wait. He wanted to know what the Duke had done to terrify Lance to this extent: no matter what, he was going to get inside and finally get some questions answered.

*****

The fact that he wasn’t crying scared Lance: he had pushed the feeling down and was prepared to keep fighting to keep it at bay: only without it he felt empty, no resistance left to focus on and push against. It was like he had flicked a switch to leave him devoid of his tears, the storm of emotions unnaturally quietened to curse him with their loss. They couldn’t distract him now, couldn’t keep him from thinking about leaving Keith at his back. Couldn’t stop him from thinking how easy it would be to turn back around and retrace his steps back to the writer. Couldn’t stop him from imagining what Lotor would do if he found out he had betrayed him all over again.

His fear and imagination kept him moving forward, moving away from the writer he desperately wanted to disappear into the wilds with.

He desperately wanted to get home: after Hunk had returned to the stage Lance had remained in the dressing room for a while longer, listening to the far off thrum of music and trying to collect himself. He should have just gone home then and there, but he couldn’t bring his legs to support his weight long enough. Now it was a ticking time-bomb, the show dangerously close to finishing for the evening: if he had waited much longer, we could have been caught in the throngs of performers and customers exiting the building.

While usually a godsend it could be a nuisance to live directly across from the club: like he could never truly escape from that stage persona, the fake ‘Lance’ that lived to entertain and please others. Part of him wished he could walk the dark streets alone and shake off the costume completely, keep his world beyond work separate.

At least it meant he could get home before his legs gave out on him again. He stepped through the doorway, looking up at the flights of stairs standing between him and his bed, before the hair at the back of his neck bristled with the feeling that someone was watching him.

He turned, his eyes sweeping the darkness for a silhouette. “Lotor?” His voice echoed up the stairwell, repeating the fear in his voice back to him. Had Lotor been there in the shadows the whole time, watching him talk to Keith? Had Lance done something wrong – he had denied the writer, hadn’t he? He had stood by his word, refusing to give in to his wants and desires – had he failed? Had he ruined it all over again, his fragile and heart-wrenching existence he had chosen?

Something moves in the darkness and his heart raises to his throat, eyes growing wide to try and see who waits for him in the black shadows. He has to blink several times as they draw closer, as the shadows retreat far enough to reveal golden hair and familiar brown eyes that he once thought were so deep they could swallow the whole world. Only now darker eyes flash in his mind to replace them, their colour almost black with the slightest flecks of violet in their depths, hair dark as night sweeping over them in a manner that made Lance want to reach a hand out to tuck it behind his ear-

She grins and it’s like déjà vu all over again. Only this time instead of a swell of longing and disbelief, of the need to cry and the rush of anxiety, he just feels…numb. Empty. A yawning void of nothingness.

He had gone too far, spread himself too thin, and had nothing more to give as she stands in front of him with eyes that only hold expectation.

*****

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he let Lance leave, doesn’t know how long he waits on dancing feet before the door swings open once more and his eyes bulge in surprise, failing to rush towards the open doorway and once again stuttering in his plan.

“Keith,” The Duke greets him, grinning with way too many teeth. He’s calm, composed: not surprised in the slightest to find the writer standing on the doorstep with a determined scowl on his face. “Won’t you come in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody is about to have some interesting conversations...


	12. Look What You Made Me Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith listens, and Lance speaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That time of the week again!  
> This week we feature Postmodern Jukebox's rendition of 'Look What You Made Me Do', found [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yjiupe-odRQ) After all, what is a musical without a villian song? 
> 
> TW: depression + suicidal based thoughts in this chapter, be careful when reading x

“-and the police grab the painter and haul him out of the way of the parade, and away from the crowd,” Lotor continues with a sickening grin, enjoying Keith’s stunned silence as he speaks.

The evening’s show was over and the patrons shooed from the hall, the only noise that of muffled movement behind the shut stage curtains. Lotor and Keith sat at Lotor’s table of choice with a front row of nothing, the hall eerily large when only being filled by the pair of them.

“The painter is thrown into a cell, in squalor and darkness, for upsetting public order. He is left to wait in the ignorance of what his fate may be. Until, many hours later, he has a visitor.”

Keith didn’t want to be here: it wasn’t hard to work out that he wished to excuse himself as soon as possible. But he had to talk to the Duke, even if it was only to help Shiro, and it was clear he wouldn’t get the opportunity to speak until Lotor had finished his story.

“The young Prince arrives, glowing white cloth surrounded by filth, intrigued by the mad painter who had stormed the parade and caused such reaction in his betrothed. He wants to know what the painter had hoped to achieve with his ill-prepared display, and, ever the ignorant fool, the painter reveals his intentions and his true feelings for the scarfweaver, begging the Prince for a chance to speak with his beloved.

“Well,” Lotor smirks, settling back in his chair, “That simply won’t do, the Prince thinks. He turns his back on the cell holding the painter and, on his way out, informs the guards that the painter is to be put to death for his crimes. Afterall, no one can threaten to upset the Prince’s way of life and expect to get away with it.

“The painter will die unceremoniously, off-stage and away from the audience’s eyes, leaving them to only imagine what fate the Prince had set for him.

“The scarfweaver will still be curious, of course. Who can blame him for wanting what he doesn’t have? He’ll still sneak away, still scour the dusty streets for the painter, but alas he will never find him, left to stand alone in the centre of the deserted square. To Shams, it seems the painter hadn’t waited, hadn’t searched for him the way the scarfweaver had. Whatever he had stormed the parade for, it clearly wasn’t of great importance.

“So Shams will return back to his new life with the Prince, disappointed but feeling a new confidence in his choices. Because, if this were meant to be, then the painter would have been waiting for him and the two would ride off into the sunset with their happily ever after. But the painter hadn’t waited for him, hadn’t searched for him, hadn’t fought to get him back. The painter had clearly given up, and it was time he do the same.”

Lotor claps his hands, making Keith jump as the noise echoes in the acoustics of the hall. “And we end with a grand wedding!” His voice booms out in the empty hall. “Bright lighting, the stage adorned with gold and silk, the band playing loud as the Prince and scarfweaver raise their voices in a soaring final duet. It will look divine as we watch the Prince and the scarfweaver take their happy ending, proclaiming their vows to the audience, promising that nothing would be allowed to come between the two.” The Duke smiles, giving Keith an appraising look. “What do you think?” He asks, clearly not actually caring for Keith’s response.

“I think,” The writer says slowly, trying to keep his rage contained in his chest, “that you’re putting a little bit much of your personal life up on the stage.”

Lotor laughs cruelly, throwing his head back to the point Keith can see the crowns of his molars. The laugh cuts off unnaturally as his head snaps forwards, pinning Keith with his gaze. “You are certainly one to talk.”

Keith feels the flush rise to his cheeks, but whether it is from anger or embarrassment he doesn’t know. His hands fist where he rests them on his lap, hidden beneath the table as he tries to remain calm in the face of the Duke: Lotor had plenty of reasons to hate him, but he wasn’t here on a selfish quest.

“You had Shiro removed from the play,” He says with ground teeth, hoping that Lotor can’t see the flaming anger that must be burning in the pits of his black eyes. “Why?”

Lotor raises an eyebrow. “Why do you think?”

“He had nothing to do-”

“He had _everything_ to do with it,” Lotor cuts in, his voice frustratingly calm yet firm to the point that Keith feels his retort stuttering on his tongue. “He’s always there, in the background, making sure you pick your battles wisely and offering his support. He has the respect of many performers here.” Lotor reaches to the table and gently swirls his glass of whiskey as if for something to distract himself from the conversation, ice cubes tinkling lightly when they strike the edge. “I couldn’t have him sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong and spreading lies.”

“What lies could he possibly spread?” Keith asks, jaw clenching tight.

“That you’re a good person,” Lotor says without hesitation, bringing his glass up to his mouth for a thoughtful drink, taking his time to let the liquid wash his tongue before swallowing. “That you and Lance are going to be in love forever and ever, and convincing everyone that I’m the evil villain that must be stopped. That’s the ending you wanted, isn’t it?”

“I know exactly what kind of person you are,” Keith says with a low growl. “I saw Lance’s wrists – how his head snapped back against the wall when you grabbed him, the look of terror on his face. You can’t keep hiding behind your composed façade: I know what you did to him.”

“Don’t you mean what _you_ did?”

Keith blinks with confusion at Lotor’s words. “I’m…not following you,” He says with uncertainty as his eyes narrow in suspicion, feeling like he’s giving up the advantage when asking Lotor to elaborate.

Lotor grins, “You have your side of the story, and we have ours. I recommend you don’t follow this path that will ultimately lead to you making a threat you can’t meet – you might not like what you find.”

Keith’s hair bristles, having to grip onto the loose tablecloth beneath the table to keep himself grounded, nails digging into the fabric. “What lies have you been spreading?”

“To you they’re lies.” Lotor shrugs, “But to them, they’re the truth. And I can assure you each and every person in this club is just _hoping_ to get their hands on you right now. I did you a favour, having you banned – it’s safer for you this way.”

Keith feels a twisting sickness in the bottom of his stomach at Lotor’s implication. It was horrifying, the multitude of lies Lotor could have told and the idea that everyone so readily believed him capable of committing them. “There’s no way they would just believe you – Lance would say-”

“ _Lance,”_ Lotor chuckles to himself, as if this entire situation is just one big joke, “Hasn’t spoken a word of the incident: honestly with it so quiet, I’m rather enjoying the vacation from his chatter. And in his silence holds your own damnation.”

Keith feels how the dejection rises in his chest, threatening to swallow him as his words shrivel on his tongue. He knew that Lance had chosen to stand by Lotor, following the bidding of his fiancé, but would he really let Lotor make these claims without speaking out against them? Regardless of what Lance had said to him in the doorway of his flat Keith _refused_ to believe they held any truth. Lance _had_ cared about him – he knew he had – and Keith had to remember who the true bad guy was here.

But the performers in the club, they didn’t know what Lotor was: as far as they were concerned now, it was Keith who was the villain. It hurt, that so many of these people he had grown to know, and somewhat like, had been corrupted so easily to view him as a monster: that _no one_ had stood by him.

Well, one would have. And Keith’s mere existence had gotten him kicked out of the one place he had considered a home.

“Fine,” Keith sighs, viewing Lotor’s wall of deceit and finding it impenetrable. “Spread your lies. Just…just don’t bring Shiro into it, he honestly has no idea what is going on. Please - let him come back.”

“Too late,” Lotor announces with a smirk. “Position has been filled. This club is done with Shiro hogging the limelight from the other male dancers.”

“Filled?” Keith asks with confusion, not liking how his question sparks another wave of smugness in the Duke.

“Would you like a private performance?” Lotor asks. “I’m sure James wouldn’t mind.”

A man appears on the stage, walking on without hesitation as though he had been waiting in the wings for Lotor to call on him. Keith knows him, recognises the flippant brunet hair and sharp eyes. Watching him on a dancefloor, watching him leave Lance’s flat in the early hours of the morning. Time and again Keith had found this man’s eyes on him when he had been talking with Lance, and had never considered the performer had been cataloguing his every move.

“This is James,” Lotor flourishes his hand towards the stage. “He’s the kind soul who informed me of your promiscuous activities with my fiancé. I am eternally grateful to him for bringing your misconducts to light.”

Keith feels his blood boil as James looks proud of what he’s done, standing in centre stage wearing the costume of the Prince that Shiro was supposed to be wearing. The clothes were loose on his slight frame as he was nowhere near Shiro’s bulk and there hadn’t yet been time to tailor the outfit: he looked like a small child who had raided his father’s closet and tried on his suits.

“With the new ending, we’ve been working on songs to accompany it. You know what?” Lotor smirks, glancing at Keith with his side-eye, “Things seem to move a lot smoother and a lot faster without you here.”

“Which song, Duke Galran?” James asks from the stage as the band shuffles onto the stage and into position. Matt settles nervously at the keys, glancing around but not finding Hunk anywhere in sight as he cracks his knuckles.

“Look What You Made Me Do,” Lotor says. He angles his head to Keith and grins. “I think you’ll enjoy this.”

As Lotor speaks drums sound and the band jumps into the beginning of the song. James doesn’t have a mic, but with how close they are to the stage it doesn’t matter as his voice carries easily to them.

_‘I don’t like your little games,_

_Don’t like your tilted stage._

_The role you made me play_

_Of the fool. No, I don’t like you.’_

“Picture this,” Lotor speaks over the music, narrating the scene that would unfurl. “The Prince has heard the painter’s foolish plan to proclaim his love to the scarfweaver and take his betrothed from him. He feels a great surge of jealousy, of the need to protect what is _his.”_

_‘But I got smarter, I got harder in the nick of time,_

_Honey, I rose up from the dead, I do it all the time.’_

“The painter is just another idiot in love, letting himself become blinded to the way of the world and ignorantly turning his back on the storm coming his way.”

‘ _I’ve got a list of names and yours is in red, underlined._

_I checked it once, then I checked it twice!”_

A cold shiver is moving down Keith’s spine as he hears the words of the song, feels Lotor’s gaze settling heavily over him. Despite the theatrics and drama, the melodic chords of the band, Keith knew a true threat when he heard one.

James grins as he hits the chorus, as though Keith is his scene partner and he can’t wait to have him dragged from his cell and removed:

_‘Oh, look what you made me do.’_

“The painter is an idiot, bumbling through life without the care to think ahead. This mess is all his own fault, too ignorant to look at the big picture and realise that no one wants him there.”

_‘Look what you made me do.’_

“It’s an important lesson for him to learn, but unfortunately he realises his mistakes too late.”

_‘Look what you just made me do.’_

“The Prince gives his orders-”

_‘Look what you just made me do.’_

“The painter is dragged from his cell, kicking and screaming for Shams-”

_‘Look what you made me do.’_

“And the Prince watches on with indifference-”

_‘Look what you made me do.’_

“Because the painter really is nothing more than a cockroach-”

_‘Look what you just made me do.’_

“Merely _waiting_ to be crushed.’

_‘Look what you just made me do-!’_

Lotor raises a hand and instantly the music stops, the performers watching him carefully for their next que. “Thank you,” He says graciously, waving them off. “We’ll end the rehearsal there: enjoy your evenings, gentlemen.”

The band look confused at one another, not quite moving yet, but James grins and bows with a ridiculous flourish, turning on his heel and sauntering off the stage. After a moment the band shake off their confusion, grabbing at their instruments and practically running backstage to be out of Lotor’s line of sight.

“So,” Lotor asks, “What do you think?”

They _both_ knew that the question wasn’t innocent, that he didn’t actually care about the song: they both knew that this was a warning, and now they were both simply waiting on Keith’s response.

*****

“…Nyma?” Lance asks with confusion, feeling his skin begin to prickle as she steps into his personal space. He takes a step back involuntarily, wanting to keep her at arm’s length. “What – what are you doing here?”

She smiles up at him, giving her best toothy grin. “You said that you would be interested in us getting a coffee and catching up sometime.”

“Yes…” Lance nods, feeling as though he’s in a dream and watching this strange exchange from the side lines. “But it’s after eleven at night, Nyma. I don’t think now is the time.”

“I know.” She lets her lower lip wobble slightly, just the lightest tremor to begin with. “I’m so sorry to call on you like this, but times are really tough-”

“Are you here for more money?” He asks with a hard voice. He feels tired, _exhausted,_ right down to his bones, and while seeing Nyma would once have been a miracle now he only feels irritation that he’s being kept from collapsing into his bed.

Her mouth pops open in shock, an aghast hand settling on her chest. “Lance!” She gasps, “You think so little of me?”

That numbness still washes over him, and he struggles to work out how he should respond if he’s to pretend that he’s perfectly fine so that he can end this exchange and go home. But frankly, he doesn’t want to wear that stupid mask and pretend that life is normal, especially for _her._ “You didn’t answer my question,” He says with a dull tone.

He sees the crocodile tears begin to collect at the lip of her lower eyelid and Lance has to give her kudos: she really is a very good actress. With those skills, it’s no wonder she kept him under her thumb for so long: it’s just unlucky that he’s too tired to let it affect him tonight.

“I came to ask you for _help,”_ She gasps, those sparkling, glassy eyes staring up at him as she wills the tears to overflow and run down her cheeks. Lance looks away from her: not because of the tears, but because he can’t handle the hurt in his chest looking at her and just _wishing_ the dark eyes belonged to someone else.

“I can’t do anything for you,” He says, ignoring how shock and anger war for control of her facial expressions and her mouth drops open. “I have nothing left to give.”

“Is that so?” A voice he doesn’t recognise asks.

Suddenly he’s falling back with an ‘ooft’, the breath knocked out from his lungs as he is pushed and his back hits something-

_His back hits the wall, his head snaps back, his vision blurs-_

A firm hand on his shoulder, a sharp and cold edge pressing into the skin of his throat-

_Fingers crushing his wrists in their grasp, nails drawing blood-_

“Selfish bastard,” the voice growls-

_“You made me believe that you **loved** me!” _

“Rolo!” Nyma snaps, stepping closer to the pair. Lance is held firmly against the bannister of the stairs, back bending uncomfortably as a knife presses in to his throat, a hand at his shoulder keeping him held firm as fingers grip the fabric of his shirt. “I was handling it!”

Lance peers down at the man who had charged him, instantly recognising the straggly blond hair and gold rings in his ears. The past three years disappear in an instant as Lance sees himself opening the bedroom door, covered in blood, only to find Nyma in bed with another man: blond hair, scraggly beard, gold rings-

“Didn’t look like it to me,” Rolo growls at her. “In fact, it looked like your dear, sweet ex-boyfriend was about to turn you away in your hour of need. Not very noble, is it?” He tsks, glaring at Lance.

Lance, sensibly, remains silent, his body shivering with gooseflesh beneath the cold steel against his neck..

“Generosity is a virtue, you know – maybe we need to help you cleanse your soul.”

Lance really should be more concerned than he is. His ex-girlfriend who cheated on him had just tried to manipulate him into giving her money _again_ , and the guy who his ex-girlfriend had cheated on him _with_ was now holding a knife to his throat in a deserted stairway where, he assumed, if he shouted no one would get here quick enough to help him.

But he feels so numb and cold: a big, empty chasm in his chest sucking at the light and joy he had held for such a brief moment, taking the memory of Keith’s warmth with it. Here, in this dark stairwell with Rolo’s knife at his neck, he almost wishes for the slice of the blade. To distract him from the pain – or to remove the pain for him entirely.

“Careful,” He smirks stupidly, meeting Rolo’s eyes, “If you don’t start bringing the money in, she’ll have you working the streets. That’s your specialty, isn’t it sweetie?” He raises an eyebrow and grins at her, not even regretting his comment as the knife edge disappears for a moment so Rolo can raise a fist and hit him in the jaw.

Lance’s head snaps to the side and he tastes the metallic tang of blood from what is now a burst lip. He chuckles as Rolo hauls him back upright, the blond-haired man watching him with worried eyes as Lance laughs to himself like a madman.

“Go ahead,” Lance dares in a low whisper. Without a mirror he can’t understand why Rolo looks so concerned for a second, but as Lance speaks the blood coats his teeth in a garish red smear and his eyes are alight with the fire of madness. Rolo’s grip on his knife faulters, the blade slipping and accidentally cutting a line into Lance’s neck and the singer doesn’t even _flinch._

Dropping all pretences of innocence, Nyma sighs loudly and settles her hands on her hips. “Just give us what we want Lance, and we’ll go,” She says with exasperation, not understanding why Rolo’s tough exterior is faltering.

Lance reaches a hand into his pocket, waving his wallet teasingly in front of her. He pushes at Rolo’s chest and the man moves easily, almost scared of the singer as he takes a step back and tries to remain intimidating with a shaking knife held forward.

“I never want to see you again,” Lance tells her with a hard voice, staring down at her slight frame. She begins to stutter, tries to worm her way back in, but he cuts her off with a firm, “I give you this and that’s it, Nyma. You go your way, I go mine, and that’s the last of it. Our story ends here.”

“Don’t forget, Lance,” She hisses, eyes following the movement of the wallet through the air carefully, “I know who you are, what you’ve done: if anyone found out, it would ruin this nice little life you’ve carved out for yourself here.”

“I don’t care,” He says in a dead tone. “Do what you want, I don’t give a damn anymore.”

Before he can give her another opportunity to have her words pollute her mind, he throws the wallet out through the open doorway and into the street. In an instant the pair are gone, cats circling the bins for a meal, dogs fighting over the last scrap of meat as they scrabble for the leather. They forget him so easily and take what he surrendered , grabbing at the leather and disappearing into the night to count pieces of paper that once had seemed so important to him.

But money, like many things, had lost their appeal on his journey. He had walked both paths of having and not-having, and now he felt thoroughly stuck in the grey area of nothingness between. He had thought that it would feel content, but instead he just feels lost: adrift at sea with no motivation to find shore and no one to help him.

He looks up at the flights of stairs above him and finds the journey to his bed seeming impossible right now. Instead he finds himself leaving his building into the dark streets of Paris that he grew to fear long ago, not knowing what he’s doing but walking in the direction of the river all the same.

*****

“So,” Lotor asks, “What do you think?”

“I think,” Keith says slowly, knowing he’s going to be stupid but unable to resist the urge, “That if you want to threaten me, you should just come out and say it.”

Keith’s eyes widen in surprise as Lotor’s head tips back and he laughs as though Keith’s made the best joke he’s ever heard. The writer sits there quietly waiting for the Duke to calm down, unsure what is so funny.

“Threaten you?” Lotor chuckles, shaking his head patronisingly. “You’ve got the wrong idea, Kogane. Despite your…transgressions, I still recognise talent when I see it. I want to offer you a job.”

“A…job?” The suspicion rising in Keith’s chest is almost palatable, sitting in the back of his throat with the acrid taste of bile.

“A job,” Lotor confirms and sips at his whiskey. “In England, no less. Many of the great playwrights of our time are in London right now, perfecting their craft: you should be one of them.”

“You want to send me to London?” Keith raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “You want rid of me that badly?”

“I want rid of you that badly,” Lotor agrees.

“And if I refuse?”

Lotor’s gaze turns hard, appraising Keith as he sits across from him. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” He says. “I am a powerful man: I can make sure you never work another day in this city again.”

“I thought this wasn’t a threat,” Keith asks, his mouth fixed in a firm line. He forces himself to meet the Duke’s eyes, push back against the gaze bearing down upon him.

“The threat is not for you,” Lotor says with a smirk. “I just want you to recognise your potential, far away from here and my corrupted fiancé. It is simply a fact that, if you disappoint me, you’ll never make a name for yourself in Paris. I can help you just as easily as destroy you.”

“I don’t need your help,” Keith frowns.

“No?” Smugness rolls off of the Duke, almost carrying a cloying stench that is difficult to breathe around. “The orphan child of a labourer and a failure thinks he doesn’t need some help? When did you learn that: in the orphanage where you met your little friend Shiro, or on the streets where the pair of you stole to sustain your worthless lives?”

Lotor’s words send a chill down Keith’s spine: those days seem like a distant dream to him but as Lotor speaks he feels himself diminishing down to that scared child all over again. “You checked up on me?”

“Of course,” Lotor says as if it’s a stupid question to ask. “Your mother moves your family into Paris in the hopes of selling her little stories, your father works himself to the bone to try and support her and you. But it’s a heavy load to bear and your father cracks beneath it: they argued, didn’t they? Then she leaves and you never see her again.”

It’s like its happening on the stage in front of them: the sound of shouting voices muffled by the walls, the itch of grime on his skin, matted hair atop his head. His father, raging and furious as a storm, telling her that she’s delusional. His mother, stubborn and unforgiving as a mountain, accusing him of being pathetic and insignificant. They scream and they shout and Keith hides, until the door slams and the house goes silent. After, his father doesn’t explain anything to him, acting as though she never even existed.

He doesn’t see his mother again after that, abandoned and confused with only the paper and ink she left behind.

“Your father continues to hold that responsibility until he breaks, and then you wind up in an orphanage,” Lotor contemplates, laying out Keith’s past traumas as though it is one of his stories fit for the stage. “You haven’t lived much of a life up until now,” He says offhand. “Seems to me like this is the turning point, if you accept the help.”

“Bribe, more like,” Keith says through ground teeth. He’s left feeling uprooted and set adrift by the forced reminder of his past, the blurry memory of his mother surfacing in his mind’s eye.

“I want to help-”

“You want to get rid of me.”

“Can’t we achieve both?” The Duke asks, leaning forward. To him this is simply a business deal he needs to finish negotiating, and he won’t take no for an answer. “Both our lives would be made easier if you just accept. Just think, you could be the one to make your mother’s dream come true.”

Talking of his family is having the opposite effect to what Lotor expected: instead of tearing Keith down into a sobbing child, he’s rediscovering the anger and hurt at being left alone in the whole wide world for stupid, selfish reasons. He feels his barriers crack as the anger rises, red hot and desperate to be released and resolved.

“You don’t know a single thing about me,” He growls, that anger flashing in the pits of his black eyes. He presses his hands to the tabletop and stands, leaning forwards in the Duke’s direction. “But I know about you,” He says threateningly. “I know what you did to Lance, and I know he’s terrified of you. I’ll tell everyone I can, I’ll publish an account of the incident if I have to: you may have your lies, but they can’t hold up against the truth.”

Lotor seems completely unfazed by the wrath that is flowing from the writer, watching how the ice bobs in his glass from Keith smacking the table. “You’re right: no lie can cover the truth,” He says mysteriously.

Keith feels the Duke trying to draw him back in with his cryptic wording, but he remains standing and angry, “I will ruin you-”

“Do you care for him – for Lance?” Lotor asks suddenly with a calm voice, glancing up at Keith.

“Of course,” He growls. “More than you ever could.”

“And he cares for you?”

“I-” He stumbles, unsure how he’s supposed to answer that. “Y-yes, I believe so.”

“You don’t sound so sure,” Lotor’s lips twist into a teasing smirk.

“Does he care for _you_?” Keith retorts.

“He cares for what I can give him,” The Duke nods. “And he cares for what I can shield him from.”

“That doesn’t sound like love,” Keith scoffs.

“And it doesn’t need to,” Lotor tells him. “What Lance and I have is mutually beneficial: we were happy for three years before you came along, and we can be happy again. Unless you choose to stay.”

“Going to threaten me again?”

Lotor looks displeased, like the idea disgusts him. “As I said, the threat is not for you. _You_ are being offered a job, a new life, and the chance to do what your parents could not: if anything,it is a gift.”

Keith’s eyes narrow suspiciously, “Then who is the threat for?”

“My dear fiancé,” Lotor grins slyly, enjoying the shock washing over Keith’s face. “You don’t spend three years with someone and not find out what skeletons are hiding in their closet. So here’s the threat you’re so desperate to hear: either you accept my gift, or Lance’s skeletons will be aired out in the light of day.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Keith says, ignoring the thread of fear beginning to spool and tangle with his anger. “Not to someone you care about.”

“Like I said, the foundation of Lance’s and my relationship is of mutual benefit: and frankly, I haven’t seen much of a benefit ever since you stepped onto the scene.” Lotor shrugs, “What good is having him around if he isn’t going to fulfil his side of our bargain? Either you go, or he does.”

Keith finds himself lowering down into his seat, that fear making him weak in the knees. He cocks his head, weighing up the Duke and whether he’s bluffing or not. “There’s nothing Lance could have done that would be so terrible.”

“Funny things, skeletons,” Lotor says thoughtfully. “Very easy to hide, so long as no one goes rattling their bones.”

Keith scowls, “If you think I’ll believe-”

“Yes yes, I am very good at lying – why should you trust me, why should you listen to what I say? But what was it you said?” Lotor pauses solely for the drama of it, pretending to ponder before saying mockingly, “ _‘No lie can hold up against the truth?’_ ”

“I’m not listening to this.” This time when Keith stands, it’s with the intention to leave: he’s tired of the Duke talking in riddles, trying and succeeding to draw a reaction from him for his own amusement.

He turns to leave but pauses as he hears Lotor say, “He told you about being a whore, didn’t he?”

Keith risks a glance over his shoulder, afraid of letting himself be drawn back in. But Keith’s silence is all Lotor needs as confirmation before the Duke is saying, “And, I’m guessing, he’s told you his sob story of being attacked and walking in on his beloved _Nyma_ cheating on him. He’s a poor soul, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m done with this-” Keith huffs.

“Did he tell you about the blood?”

_Blood on my hands, my shirt…_

“About exactly _why_ she reacted like she did?”

_Screamed, shouted that I had damned us…_

“The knife?”

_I stabbed upwards…I didn’t care…I just needed to breathe…_

“He was _attacked_ ,” Keith said, horrified with Lotor’s blasé attitude. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“Hmm…” Lotor contemplates. “And I suppose it wasn’t his fault when he stabbed that man in the chest more times than he can count?”

_I left him…I ran…_

“That isn’t what happened,” Keith says.

“What was the fairytale he gave you?” Lotor raises an eyebrow. “That he thrust with the knife once and ran away, scared out of his mind, thinking he was being chased?”

_Convinced he was going to catch up to me…_

Keith should leave, but he can’t move. Lotor’s tricks are obvious, but they’re effective and while Keith would like to deny it the Duke holds the writer’s foolish interest in his hand.

“I love that line most of all,” Lotor muses. “ _‘I thought he was going to get me!’_ ” He says mockingly, breaking off with a chuckle. “The rest of the story is so well composed, carefully put together so that it is neither entirely false nor true. But that line: that’s where he always finds himself outright _lying_.”

“What are you talking about?”

“ _‘I thought he was going to get me!’_ It’s horse shit: if you do what Lance did you would _know_ they wouldn’t be coming after you.”

“He-” Keith was trying so hard not to let Lotor get to him, to stay strong. “He was being attacked-”

“Yes, and we can’t fault him for defending himself,” Lotor says with an amused grin. “One sharp jab upwards and the attacker falls to the side. Lance can stand, he can run, he can escape and make it home. But he doesn’t.”

“Of course he does-”

“No: instead of counting his blessings and running away, he steps over to where the man is on the ground, bleeding and swearing.” Lotor leans forwards to settle his elbows on the table, watching Keith like a cat watches a mouse before they pounce. “He calmly and collectedly straddles the man’s hips and takes hold of the knife. Then comes the second stab, and the third. There’s a fourth and fifth, and a distant part of himself notices how the handle becomes slick with thick, warm blood. But he doesn’t stop: not with a sixth stab, nor a seventh or eighth. He sits there and loses count as he plunges that knife down over and over again. He watches the light fade from the man’s eyes, and he smiles.”

A shiver travels down Keith’s spine at the imagery, his imagination struggling to conjure the image of Lance doing such a thing.

“ _That’s_ why Nyma ran, why she gave up on manipulating him anymore. Because he returned home covered in the blood of the man he had killed and was _still_ holding the knife _._ Because he chose to murder someone when he could have ran, and because she knew that he had _liked it.”_

Keith’s throat feels dry as he finds the will to speak. “I won’t believe you.”

And Lotor just shrugs as if the whole situation doesn’t matter, “You don’t have to: the police will. They tend to listen to a family such as mine, _especially_ when Lance’s victim was someone as powerful as my father was.”

“He-he killed-?”

“He did,” Lotor nods without a hint of grief. “And he has no idea that the random stranger he killed was my father. Which is the real shame here: I always wanted to thank him for doing my dirty work for me.”

Keith knows better than to trust Lotor’s words, but the Duke is right when he talks of the influence his family has in the city. Whether it’s true or not, Lotor has the power to turn his words into a reality. If Keith were to stay in Paris, Lance would lose even more than he already had: he would be cast into a cell, or put to death. And all because Keith wanted to share the city with a man he couldn’t have.

Lotor’s right: he isn’t threatening Keith at all. But he finds his hands tied all the same.

The writer settles back down at the table as he and the Duke enter into an almost-civil conversation, setting the arrangement before shaking hands and calling it a night.

*****

_‘Hold me close and hold me fast,_

_The magic spell you cast,_

_This is la vie en rose.’_

The water swirls, dark and black, beneath where he swings his legs. He throws his feet out in a long arch, letting them fall back to have his heels bounce off the stone of the bridge before doing it all again. He should be cold – he should be _freezing –_ but the temperature can’t touch him where he resides in the depths of his chest surrounded by a personal darkness. The material world isn’t real: it doesn’t exist beyond this vortex of pain and sadness, held captive inside this sleek white cell of bone.

_‘When you kiss me, heaven sighs,_

_And though I close my eyes,_

_I see la vie en rose.’_

The wind whistles as it collides with him and the bridge, the dark waters churning beneath him. It would be so easy, to slip from the edge and hide in their darkness: disappear into the blackness to hide from his own. It would be so simple, just one little move and he could be finished with it all.

_‘When you press me to your heart,_

_I’m in a world apart,_

_A world where roses bloom.’_

But even as he considers it for what must be the hundredth time that night, the memory of a smile rises to push back the darkness. Black hair he can tangle his fingers in, eyes dotted with purple flecks that he’d happily lose himself in, a random snore that is heard just when he starts spinning out and keeps his feet planted to the ground. He wants to fall forwards but the memories push him back, adding a swirl of bittersweet pain to the cacophony in his chest that both makes it more manageable and that much more unbearable all at once.

_‘And when you speak,_

_Angels sing from above.’_

He hates this limbo he feels trapped in, but yet he can’t let it go. He can’t look in the face of his future, can’t bear the thought of living through it, yet these brief moment of his past keep him held tight.

_‘Everyday words seem to turn into a love song.’_

He’s not going to do it: he knows that. Still, it’s nice to think about how he could end the turmoil with just one move. Strangely, it gives him a sense of control amidst the storm.

He should jump with fright as he hears someone come up behind him, should be afraid as their feet scrabble against stone as they climb the wall to sit at his side, but he almost wishes that whoever it is would give him the push he desperately craves. Instead Hunk settles in at his side, pressing their shoulders together and swinging his legs in time with Lance.

“What are you doing here?” Lance asks him, and Hunk gives him the trademarked look that says ‘ _what kind of question is that, you idiot?’_.

“I could ask you the same thing,” The pianist says, turning to follow Lance’s gaze and watch the water froth and swirl below. “But I guess I don’t really need to. Are you okay?”

“I saw Nyma,” Lance says with lips numbed by the cold. He sees how Hunk stiffens at her name, the word instantly bringing a scowl to a face that doesn’t suit the expression. “She was waiting, when I went home.”

Hunk’s tone is cautious as he asks, “What did she want?”

“You can take a guess Hunk.” Lance side-eyes him, “I know you see her for what she truly is.”

“What she truly is?” Hunk asks carefully.

“A manipulative bitch,” Lance growls in frustration and anger before hearing the words hit his ears and ending up giggling to himself, Hunk quickly joining in at the sudden outburst of profanity. “What I _mean_ to say,” Lance chuckles, “is that she’s a bloodsucking parasite and the only thing she ever gave me was the chance to outgrow her. Silver lining: at least I know now that I deserve better than _that._ ”

“To the leech,” Hunk grins, toasting into the air with an imaginary glass.

“To the leech,” Lance echoes, the pair ‘clinking’ their glasses together.

With the warmth of Hunk’s presence, Lance is starting to feel the contrast of the sharp cold that seems to have settled in his core. “How did you know I would be here?” Lance asks his best friend.

“I had a hunch,” Hunk shrugs. “It sort of was confirmed when I came home to find your bed empty.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be rehearsing tonight? Lots of new changes to get on board with.”

“Maaaaaybe,” Hunk smirks, drawing out the word before rolling his eyes. “But Lotor wanted to spend the time parading his new pet around the stage, and I didn’t have the stomach for it.”

Lance raises a brow, “James that bad?”

“Not at all,” Hunk says. “Talent-wise, that is. As a person? Yes, he’s _that_ bad.”

Lance sighs, dropping his head to rest his chin on his chest. “This is all my fault.”

Hunk wraps a comforting arm around Lance’s shoulders, drawing him to his warmth and helping him thaw. “This is _Lotor’s_ fault, you hear me? And regardless of how bad things look now, we’re going to work them out.”

Lance shakes his head, giving in and settling his cheek on Hunk’s shoulder. “There’s nothing to work out, Hunk. Please – if I do anything, Keith could get hurt. I couldn’t live with myself if I let that happen.”

Hunk sighs, long and deep, but he doesn’t say anything. Because he knows Lotor’s capabilities as well as anyone else in Paris, and he understands he shouldn’t take threats made by the Duke idly.

“It’ll work out,” Hunk promises, and a foolish part of Lance choses to believe him.

“We’ll see,” Lance sighs, feeling the cold sharply as a violent shiver runs down his spine. “Brrr,” He breaths, feeling his teeth begin to chatter, “I think it’s time to call it a night!”

“Sure thing,” Hunk grins, glancing down at his friend. “But first…”

The friendly giant clears his throat theatrically, beginning to sing with a voice that is rusty from disuse. 

_‘Give your heart and soul to me,’_

Lance grins and opens his mouth, joining in with Hunk for the remaining line of the song, the two singing a slightly-out of tune duet together in the dead of a Parisian night atop the Pont du Carrousel.

_‘And life will always be_

_La vie en rose.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why can't things get better yet?  
> EURGH!
> 
> P.S. I was listening to [Louis Armstrong's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8IJzYAda1wA) version of La Vie En Rose for this scene (if you care...)


	13. Someone Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lotor is smug, and the boys try to live their new lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello HELLO!!!!  
> My god, it feels like so LONG since I was last here.  
> I apologise for missing the update last week, and I never expected so many of you to message letting me know it was okay. It was incredibly sweet of you all, and I can't thank you enough for understanding.  
> So, halfway through writing this chapter I realised just why I was struggling with it. Turns out I had SEVERELY underestimated how much I planned to fit into it. I thought it would be just as long as every other chapter...  
> I don't know if you have worked out just how wrong I was, but in case you haven't, I will confirm that this is a 17k word chapter.  
> I...I don't know how that happened.  
> So, anyway, I hope it was worth the wait, I hope it's not super disappointing after all this time, and i hope you enjoy!! 
> 
> This week's song is Scott Bradlee & Annie Goodchild's (it was made before Postmodern Jukebox was formed, so it is technically a Postmodern song as much as Nausicaä is technically a Ghibli movie) gorgeous version of 'Someone Like You', found [here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zYy0i4Q4XWI)

“What do you _mean?”_

“What do you think I mean, Shiro?” Keith huffed, grabbing at armfuls of clothing and shoving them into a ratty suitcase that, honestly, wasn’t likely to survive the trip. “I’m leaving, I’m moving, I am bidding you a fond farewell before up and disappearing into pastures anew.”

“I understand the _words_ Keith _,”_ Shiro says with frustration, the bulk of his body blocking the doorway as though he expects Keith to try and slip past him and run for the hills before they're done talking. “What I don’t understand is the _intent.”_

“I _intend,”_ Keith says sarcastically, rolling his eyes, “to finish packing in peace so that, when I leave, I make sure I have everything.”

Shiro looks displeased as he asks, “And when should that be?”

Keith just shrugs: he wasn’t the detail-man here. His job was to be ready to up and leave when Lotor snapped his fingers: as soon as the details of travel arrived, he was expected to be out the door in a flash and on his way. When that would be was anyone’s guess, though Keith suspected it would be sooner rather than later.

“This is mad!” Shiro huffs. “Keith, we should talk about this-”

“Why?” He asks with a bite. “Why does what _I’m_ doing affect _you_?”

“Because I care-”

“Look,” Keith cut-in, not wanting to hear the emotional spiel, “With me gone, you can finally move on with your life. You’ve got a great job, a great boyfriend – it makes no sense that you’re still living in this dump of a flat with me. You’re holding yourself back to remain on my lowly level of squalor because you think you owe me something, and I can’t have you giving up any more of your future for me.”

“Lowly level?” Shiro questions. “Your writing is about to be the most renowned play in Paris-”

“Something that I only managed because of you.” Keith sighs, stilling himself and placing his hand atop the disorganised mound of clothing in the suitcase. “I think…I think I need to branch out on my own, do something for myself. We’ve always been there for each other: maybe it’s time we grew up and moved on.”

Shiro walks into the room and settles himself on the end of Keith’s bed, the writer squawking as his roommate begins to remove articles of clothing before beginning to fold them delicately. “If you’re organised, it’ll make this easier,” Shiro scolds.

“See?” Keith smirks, sitting himself down on the other side of the suitcase and making the mattress bounce between them. “Always picking up after me.”

“You help me, I help you.” Shiro shrugs, a sad look on his face. “I never knew that you thought that was a bad thing.”

“I _don’t,”_ Keith says, taking clothes and beginning to fold as well (though his skills were severely lacking compared to Shiro’s origami-like precision). “I just…how can I know what I’m capable of, if I always have you as a safety net?”

Shiro goes quiet for a moment, mulling over his words. “I won’t stop you – obviously, if this is what you want to do I support you. Just…just swear to me that you’re not doing this to run away from your problems.”

Keith scoffs. “What problems-?”

“You can huff and puff all you want,” Shiro says sternly, “But we both know that I can see right through your blustering, and I can see that something has been up with you for weeks now.”

Keith frowns, stubbornly saying, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Shiro shakes his head in exasperation, “Did you listen to what I _just_ said?”

His scowl deepens and for a moment he lets himself become transfixed by the trousers in his hands, taking extra care when folding to avoid Shiro’s eye. “It could _possibly_ be described as running away from my problems,” He finally relents, subconsciously pouting all the while, “But I’m an adult and if that’s what I want to do then that’s what I’m going to do.”

“At least you can acknowledge it,” Shiro shrugs. “I just…you know I’m here for you, don’t you?”

Keith sighs and puts the clothing down, giving Shiro his undivided attention as he says honestly, “Of course I do, Shiro. And I can’t thank you enough for how you’ve stood by me all these years. It’s just…it’s complicated.”

“Maybe it just seems that way because it’s trapped in your head. Must be getting jumbled, rattling around and bouncing off your thick skull,” Shiro says with a slight smirk.

Keith gives Shiro the benefit of the doubt and actually considers his words: could that really be it? That the situation was actually simple and he was twisting it into complicated knots?

No – it surely couldn’t be as easy as speaking about it out loud and the situation would fix itself. He was a pessimist at heart, and that hopeful fantasy was far out of his realm of belief. There was nothing that could fix this problem now, save for either Keith packing up and leaving or a divine intervention from the heavens.

God hadn’t done him any favours before: why expect one now?

But this secret, it felt like it was eating away at his insides, leaving holes in his defences for guilt to flood through at the idea of disappearing and never telling Shiro why. After all these years, could he really just leave the person who had been like a brother to him behind, without any explanation of why he was running?

Talking about it wouldn’t fix anything for _him_ – but maybe it could help Shiro when he was gone…?

“I don’t want to talk about it-” He starts.

But Shiro tries to be understanding, raising his hands in surrender with a, “Fair enough-”

“ _No,”_ Keith groans, letting his head fall back so he could only look at the ceiling and not the look on Shiro’s face. “I don’t _want_ to talk about it – but I will. For you.”

“Oh my stars,” Shiro gasps, acting as a southern belle as he clutches at his imaginary pearls, “Dear Master Kogane would do that for little ol’ me?” Keith knows his game: trying to make light of the situation so as not to scare Keith away from talking about something important. It’s a glaringly obvious play that he uses time and time again, and honestly Keith doesn’t know which is worse: the fact that he is willingly baring his soul, or dealing with Shiro’s well-meaning theatrics in order to do so.

“Please,” Keith begs with a whine, “ _Please_ don’t make this harder than this has to be.”

“Understood,” Shiro says with a chuckle, clearly biting his tongue against another comment and scooting back so he can bring a foot up onto the bed and rest his head on his knee. “Proceed.”

Keith feels his skin prickling under Shiro’s patient gaze, the uncomfortable tickle of gooseflesh rising, “Do you have to do that?”

“… Do what?”

“With your face,” Keith blusters, feeling how red his cheeks are under the scrutiny.

“My…face?”

“Can you stop looking at me? Please?”

Shiro rolls his eyes, but being as experienced as he was dealing with Keith’s particular aversion to communication he doesn’t say a word as he flops down onto his back and makes sure to focus his gaze upon the ceiling. “If you’ve got any other excuses, now is the time to get them out of the way.”

“Why am I even friends with you?” Keith grumbled.

“Because my bed was the one next to yours in the orphanage,” Shiro says without missing a beat. “And you kept me awake with your crying.”

Keith considers following the train of bickering, hiding behind the distraction ( _well, **you’re** the one that snored to high heaven!)_, but he knows Shiro won’t let him get away with it and perhaps it was better to just get it over with.

Keith grimaces as he braces himself to speak, struggling to believe that he’s actually going to do this. “So, you’re right – there is a reason I’m going to London.”

“I should hope so-” Shiro chuckles before Keith launches a pillow at his head, cutting him off.

“I’m going to London,” Keith says forcefully, “Because I…got involved with someone for a while. And it was stupid, and impulsive, and I need to get away from everything so I can forget about it and move on.”

The sentence bursts out at such a speed that Shiro just blinks for a moment, replaying and slowing down the snippet in order to make sense of it before his head turns to face Keith where he’s pressing his body up against the wooden headboard like he could escape straight through the wall. Shiro blinks owlishly again, “What?”

Keith groans, drawing his knees close and hiding his face behind them.

“Like…” Shiro says, trying to get his head around it all. “ _Romantically_ involved?”

Keith groans again, regretting ever thinking that this could help.

“Keith?”

“Yes,” He snaps from behind his knees, hugging his legs tight. “Yes, that kind of involved. But it was a mistake.”

“Why?”

Keith dares peek out between his legs for a moment to look quizzically at Shiro. “What?”

“Why was it a mistake?” He asks innocently.

“Because…” Keith struggles to find the words without giving everything away. “Because it was. It was all wishful thinking and immature dreaming. But he has something he needs to protect, and I can’t stay here if that’s what he wants to do.”

“We could work-”

“No Shiro, there is no ‘we’ here,” He says firmly. He turns his head, resting his cheek on top of his knee and sighing in defeat. “It’s not safe for me to stay, and it’s not safe for you to get involved. He doesn’t want me here anymore, and I need to respect that.”

He doesn’t know what to expect as he hears Shiro move but the hug catches him off guard, his friend bringing him close to his chest and circling him with thickly-muscled arms.

“Does this have something to do with Lance?” Shiro asks gently, trying not to push Keith into realms he’s not comfortable with.

And Keith answers with his silence, not daring to correct Shiro’s guess.

“Oh,” Shiro says, sounding like air had been punched from his lungs. “Oh Keith, I’m so sorry-”

“It’s fine, Shiro,” He says stubbornly.

“It’s not-”

“It _is,”_ He promises. “Trust me: it’s better if I’m not here.”

“Are those your words,” Shiro asks, “Or Lotor’s?”

At this Keith gently pushes Shiro away, not a move in anger but because he wants Shiro to be able to see the honesty in his eyes as he says, “Me staying here is bad for _everyone_ I care about, Shiro. And…” He takes a deep breath, refusing to let the emotion swelling in his chest take over, “And I don’t think I can stay here when I know how close he is. I don’t think I could live with him always being just out of reach. I _need_ this: I need a fresh start.”

Shiro is unflinching as he stares into Keith’s eyes, looking for the lie, looking for something he can cling to to convince his closest friend - his _family -_ not to leave. But Keith is stubborn, firm as iron, and he’s clearly made up his mind about this.

So all he says is, “I’m going to miss you.”

Keith looks away as he says, “I’m going to miss you too,” far too afraid of the tears that are threatening to overflow past his eyes. “But this is the way it has to be.”

Shiro takes a deep, calming breath before slapping his knees and standing. “Okay,” he says with self-assurance, “How can I help?”

*****

Lotor frowns as Coran is finalising the plans to the team, just wishing all of this advertising preamble could finally be over with.

The cast look incredibly nervous as Coran speaks: the planning had gained traction and now felt like a snowball barrelling out of control down a hill, only growing larger and faster as time went on. Because they had only just managed to get an ending to the play, and with it came the announcement that Shiro had stepped down from his role and wished to take some time off from the Café, not to mention some… unsavoury rumours about Keith. So now they had the final scenes to memorise – the style of which seemed very out of character for Keith’s writing – as well as a new performer to run lines with and build-up a character dynamic with all over again.

James was…frustrating. Waltzing onto the stage with more confidence than he deserved, refusing to take constructive criticism and blaming any issues on his scene partner. Where Lance had previously adored every moment working on the play, now he only felt dread as he ran lined with James, reading his scripted vows for the wedding scene with a dead voice.

Suffice to say, things were tense.

And, what is only making things worse, is Lotor’s nearly-continuous presence in the Café, seeming to always be peering over shoulders and eavesdropping on conversations. He was everywhere, spending as many hours between these walls as Lance was, keeping a watchful eye over his fiancé.

Lance felt like _screaming._ It was suffocating, Lotor always being so close, watching him with those suspicious eyes, just waiting for him to make another mistake, to not honour his agreement. Lotor’s eyes would watch him for a moment, untrusting, before glancing down and catching sight of the garish jewels at Lance’s throat. At this point he would be temporarily placated, pleased to see his dog wearing his collar.

“We need more time,” Allura said, eyes wide at what Coran was suggesting. “How are we supposed to pull this off?”

Coran looked unsure for a moment, glancing back to meet Lotor’s eyes. The Duke impatiently waved him on and he turned back around, well-versed in what he was supposed to say to the expectant staff. “We simply have to rise to the occasion, Allura. I have faith in you all as performers.”

“Let me get this straight,” Allura scowls, settling her hands on her hips. “You want us to have a nice little staff party tomorrow night, throw caution to the wind, and _then_ put on an exclusive viewing of the play for an assortment of esteemed guests the following night? And all this less than a week after replacing one of the leading men with someone who can’t even remember his lines, let alone perform them with conviction? Is that your plan, Coran?”

Coran sighed, at a loss for words as he rubs his exhausted face.

Lotor stands up, walking up behind the club-owner and taking over to address the group of performers, his eyes settling on the glint at the base of Lance’s neck. “You have all been working extremely hard,” He acknowledges, yet his tone sounds patronising. “But, after the gala, interest for this project appears to be fading from the public eye, and that cannot be allowed to happen. We need to seize this opportunity before we lose it: what good is a perfect play if no one is to witness it?”

“What good is a half-baked show that we aren’t prepared for?” Allura counters, a heated red dusting her cheekbones. “Your plan is for us to fail before we even begin.”

“You won’t fail,” Lotor says, laying a cold stare on her that makes her flinch. “Because if you do, that means that I will have wasted my precious time and money on this club with nothing to show for it. Is that what you want?”

Allura clearly wants to argue but bites her tongue, reminding herself that perhaps fighting with the man who owned the roof over their heads wasn’t the best of ideas.

Lotor grins as he sees Allura’s submission, noting how the other performers follow suit and accept their fate. “We have a lot to get done in a short amount of time,” he announces to the group of dejected-looking performers. “But I expect you to rise to meet the challenge: after all, you’re _supposed_ to be professionals.”

Uncomfortable silence follows his words, gratefully broken by Coran cutting back in and trying to lighten everyone’s spirits. “But to thank you for all that you have done,” He announces, trying to smile wide enough to draw the room into the expression, “We’re going to have a little staff-only party tomorrow night. Open bar,” He grins, forcing a chuckle, but no one seems to buy his upbeat attitude.

He sighs, giving up. “That’s us for now,” He says, dismissing the group to return to the afternoon’s rehearsals.

As the performers wander away, Coran’s spine tingles as his sister comes marching up to him with a face of storming wrath. She opens her mouth, “Cor-”

“Please,” he practically whispers. “I beg of you, Allura, not now.”

She pauses, seeing the exhausted look on his face, eyes flicking quickly to the Duke who was following after his fiancé, but whom had stopped to watch the siblings’ discussion from across the room.

“Fine,” She growls, knowing that this particular mess was out of her and her brother’s hands. “But I’m bringing Shiro to the party.”

“Allura,” Coran said with exhaustion. “You know why we can’t-”

“No, I don’t know,” She says sternly. “Regardless if what Lotor told you was true or not, it doesn’t change the fact that Shiro had nothing to do with it. You said this little party of yours and Lotor’s is to lift everyone’s spirits: well I suspect that Shiro in particular would benefit from that right now. Don’t you?”

“Allura-”

“Considering you practically fired him and exiled him from his family without so much as a farewell.” Allura crosses her arms across her chest, raising an eyebrow as though _daring_ her brother to be stupid enough to argue with her.

Coran sighs, and she knows she’s won. “Fine, fine. But with one caveat: do not let him talk to Lance.” He looks over his shoulder, checking that the Duke had exited the hall before saying quietly, “Something tells me Lotor would _not_ be happy if we let that happen.”

*****

Today the encrusted-collar felt particularly uncomfortable, the sharp corners of welded metal catching and rubbing against the cut he had received from Rolo. Still, there was always a silver-lining: the necklace covered the small wound perfectly, so at least he didn’t need to worry about explaining its presence.

His face looks gaunt and sad in his mirror so Lance decided to focus all his attention on Hunk, who was chatting about the line-up for tonight’s show.

“How do you have this much energy?” Lance grumbles. “Considering we were up half the night.”

Hunk shrugs, his eyes not even carrying the slightest of dark bags beneath them. “Maybe if you had gotten up to join me for breakfast, you would be a bit more awake too,” He says with a smirk.

Lance waves off his motherly-tone, “The alluring pull of my bed is much too strong for that, Hunk. I’d take warmth and pillows over breakfast any day.”

“Really?” Hunk raises an eyebrow, “Even if I were to make my famous _French toast?”_

Lance’s ears perked up at that, a glint of intrigue lighting in his eye. “Don’t joke about such things man,” He warns.

“How about tomorrow?” Hunk offers, watching how Lance’s face was beginning to light up. “A special breakfast: we can eat until we almost vomit then come to work, maybe pretend we’re rehearsing and sneak away for a nap?”

Lance is sitting a bit straighter in his seat, his smile a bit brighter at the heavenly idea before a weighted realisation descends and he feels his face fall. “I wish I could,” he says forlornly. “But I think I need to stay at Lotor’s tonight. He’s not happy with how little time I’ve been spending with him recently.”

“Jee,” Hunk scoffs, saying sarcastically, “I wonder why you don’t want to be alone with him?”

Lance swats at his arm, glancing around with alarm to make sure Lotor wasn’t within hearing distance. “ _Hunk,”_ he hissed. “Are you _crazy?”_

Hunk frowns but he bites his lip, noting that maybe it was a stupid comment to make, but refusing to apologise for it. “Another morning, then,” He promises. His eyes flicker beyond Lance for a second before returning, lowering his voice as he says, “I believe your jailer is waving you over.”

Lance turns to note Lotor’s appearance in the doorway, watching Lance with an impatience in his eye as if he expects his fiancé to have simply sensed the summons. Lance sighs and stands, shrugging a shoulder at Hunk’s questioning glance before walking up to his fiancé, a bright, garish smile plastered on his face while others can see them. “Hi, honey.”

“Lance,” Lotor says easily. “Do you have a moment?”

“For you, I have all the moments in the world.” The words sound flat to Lance’s ears, but Lotor seems pleased with his performance so that’s all that matters. He leads the way, walking them out into the hall towards the backdoor.

“Oh – could you wait a minute, I haven’t got my cigarettes,” Lance says: he has a sneaking suspicion that a smoke would be a great help with whatever Lotor is going to say.

“No,” He tells him firmly, not even stopping to glance back, “You know I hate that disgusting habit.”

Lance feels shame in his gut similar to that of a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. He doesn’t press the issue, though he feels his hands tremble lightly with anxiety from Lotor’s tone.

Outside is gloomy, a sharp wind cutting through the streets with a chill unlike that of the Spring. Lance rubs his hands up his arms for warmth, wishing Lotor had at least let him grab a jacket.

“I-Is everything okay?” Lance asks, not enjoying being kept in the dark.

Lotor grins garishly wide, placing a hand to Lance’s chin before leaning down to kiss him: to anyone else the hand would be a sweet gesture, but Lance knew it was there to keep him from turning away from the kiss, that if he pulled back the light touch would become a crushing grip. So he stayed frozen as Lotor kissed him, Lance’s eyes remaining open and just waiting for it to end.

Lotor pulls away with a satisfied smile, smug as a cat who had got the cream. “I know we’ve just been through a rough patch,” He says, tracing a hand up Lance’s cheek as the singer stays silent, “But I feel like we’re emerging from it stronger than ever. You and me: no one else is going to get in our way.”

Lance nods his head robotically, skin crawling beneath the touch of Lotor’s skin on his.

“This is how things are supposed to be,” Lotor talks on, not caring that this was a one-sided conversation that Lance was too afraid to enter lest he say the wrong thing. “No distractions, or interruptions: you’re finally getting your big break, and its all because of how much I care about you.”

Lance was struggling to keep his mask in place with the sickening brush of Lotor’s fingers on his cheek. He needed him to stop touching him-

“You know how much I care,” Lotor asks, tone turning hard. “Don’t you?”

Lance nods quickly, scared of that tone of voice. Lotor softens, his fingers trailing down over Lance’s jaw to stroke the jewels set in Lance’s necklace.

“It’s why I have to play the bad guy, sometimes,” He says thoughtfully, focused on the glint of the stones in the gloomy afternoon light. “Because I need to keep you safe from yourself. You make a lot of mistakes.”

“I-” Lance’s voice is shaky, weak. “I know.”

“And I’m always here, cleaning up your mess. Why do I do that?”

“Because- because you care,” Lance parrots back. His words are unconvincing, but Lotor doesn’t care.

“Exactly,” He smiles without warmth, eyes returning to Lance’s. “Once the writer is gone, you and I can start our life together anew.”

“Gone?” Lance asks, terrified of the answer.

Lotor doesn’t look pleased that Lance is asking after Keith, but he deigns an answer reasonable. “He’s leaving, I hear,” The Duke says with practised indifference. “London, apparently.”

Lance keeps his suspicions to himself, certain that the Duke had something to do with this decision to leave but not risking revealing these thoughts: at least in England, Keith would be well out of Lotor’s reach.

“How nice,” Lance says casually, trying to mimic Lotor’s indifference. “When does he leave?”

Lance knows he’s pressed too far when that suspicious look returns to Lotor’s eye. “And how am I supposed to know that?”

Lance bites down on the flesh of his lip to keep anymore stupid question slipping out, Lotor’s overly-defensive attitude hinting that he knew more about the travel arrangements than he was letting on.

The wind picks up, pushing at the heavy clouds above so that, just for a moment, a ray of blinding sunshine breaks through the cover. It lit the air around he and Lotor in a bright flash and Lance screwed his eyes shut against the glare, instinctively turning his head and craning his neck to look up at the sky that had surprised the city with a brief glimpse of light.

But Lotor wasn’t looking at the sky, but rather following the gleaming jewels around Lance’s throat-

“What is that?”

Lance turns back to him, the sun disappearing as suddenly as it had arrived. Lotor’s focus was on Lance’s neck and he suddenly felt vulnerable, as though the Duke were about to turn rabid and tear his throat out. “What-?” He asked with a croaking voice.

“Take the necklace off,” Lotor ordered. “ _Now.”_

Unsure what was wrong Lance did as he was told, only remembering the cut when the metal scraped painfully against the tender edge. His eyes widened, “Lotor-”

Lotor grabbed his jaw and turned his head, making his neck crane so he could get a better look. “What,” He hisses, trailing a finger painfully over the cut, “is that?”

“It’s nothing,” Lance gasps, trying to calm his racing heart. “A cut, while shaving-”

“Do _not_ lie to me Lance!” Lotor hisses, dropping the grip on his face. “Tell me the _truth.”_

He knows better than to push this: Lotor was well-versed in Lance’s capabilities when it came to lying and could see right through them. He sighs, wanting to protect himself and returning the necklace to his throat. “It’s not a big deal,” He promises, struggling with the clasp for a moment from his shaking fingers. “I…I got mugged last night, on my way home. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Who did it?” Lotor growled.

He had hoped that he wouldn’t have to admit to knowing the attackers, but Lotor was looming over him, trapping him back against the wall and watching for anymore attempts at lying. He feels pathetically small as he whispers, “It- it was Nyma. And Rolo.”

He bites his lip, drawing blood, to contain his shriek as Lotor suddenly lashes out and slams a fist into the wall at Lance’s side. Lance presses himself up against the brick and takes short, sharp breaths, watching Lotor with fearful eyes.

“There is always _something_ with you,” The Duke says through clenched teeth. “Mess after mess after mess.”

“I-I’m s-sorry,” Lance stammers.

“What good are your apologies?” Lotor hisses, blowing a long breath out of his nose before straightening up and running fingers through his hair. “Don’t worry, love,” He says, touching his hand to Lance’s cheek despite his fiancé’s violent flinch at the gesture. “As always, I will tidy this up for you.”

“Y-you don’t need to do that,” Lance tries to say. “I’m okay-”

“No more distractions,” Lotor reminds him, his presence seeming to steal the breath from Lance’s lungs. “No more interruptions: a fresh start. You want that, don’t you?”

Lance can’t find his voice, nodding wordlessly in agreement.

“Good.” Lotor takes a step back and suddenly Lance can breathe again. The Duke straightens his jacket and checks his watch. “I have work to be tending to – I trust you can keep yourself out of trouble while I’m gone?”

Lance just nods again, refusing to let one more word escape to anger the Duke all over again.

“Make sure that you do.” Lotor turns to leave before seeming to remember something, glancing over his shoulder. “I expect you home promptly after the show this evening, no dawdling. Zethrid will escort you to ensure nothing…distracts you.”

“Y-yes, Lotor.”

Lotor leaves without another word, leaving Lance to return inside on shaky legs and too-shallow breaths. He stops outside the dressing room door and forces himself to take three deep breaths, willing his nerves to steady. He was never going to be able to keep this act up if he let himself become rattled so easily.

He slipped back amongst the dressing room chaos, feeling like a newbie all over again as he bumps into other performers and constantly apologising on the way to his table, grateful when he escapes the fray and can collapse into his chair.

Hunk has waited for his return, curious as to the Duke’s summons. “Everything okay?” He asks, noting Lance’s tense expression.

“Same shit,” Lance says shortly, snatching at his make-up and distracting himself with covering the shadows below gaunt cheekbones, “Different day.”

Hunk shakes his head to himself, almost not wanting to ask, “What did he want?”

“Keith is leaving,” Lance says, not answering Hunk’s question directly.

This makes the pianist raise an eyebrow. “And how does Lotor know that?”

“I’ll give you three guesses.”

Hunk runs a hand through his hair, pulling off his headband so he can rub at his forehead as he tries to think. “So what does that mean?”

“It _means,”_ Lance says, slapping at his cheeks to try and bring some colour back to them, “That I’m never going to think about Keith again, and I will move on with my life.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy, bud,” Hunk says softly, placing a comforting hand to Lance’s shoulder.

It astounding, how different that touch makes him feel compared to Lotor’s. Lance lets himself press into it for a mere moment before returning to his face, covering the evidence of his stress with a fine layer of powder. “Well it needs to be,” He says stubbornly, “Because I don’t know what else to do. So I will just will it away, and that will be the end of it.”

“If that is what you want, you need to actually _do_ something about it _,”_ Hunk says, tying his headband back in place. “Something to give yourself closure, the chance to shut the door and move past it.”

“And what do you suggest?” Lance says with an unamused expression, raising an eyebrow.

“Without talking to him directly?” Hunk foolishly asks, abandoning the point at Lance’s deadpan face. “How about a letter?”

“A…letter?”

Hunk nods, standing and pulling the drawers of Lance’s table open. Lance squawks as his friend hits the table and sends much of his make-up toppling over, half-hazardly racking through the drawer’s contents until he finds a short stack of paper and a pen. He places them in front of Lance, “A letter.”

Lance is unimpressed as he asks, “And this will help how?”

“Write everything down,” Hunk tells him. “You always use writing to help your thought processes: this is no different. Write down everything you wish you could say to Keith, everything you had hoped for the two of you. Write down your goodbye, what you would have said to him if you had had the chance. If you can’t speak to him, write a letter and make your own closure.”

Lance eyes the paper suspiciously, “And then what?”

Hunk shrugs. “Burn it? Seal it in an envelope and hide it from the light of day? It doesn’t matter – the important part is getting this out of your head.”

“Isn’t that what I usually do with songs?”

Hunk raises his hands in mock surrender, “If you want to write a song that will help you with this _and_ perform it on a stage in front of an audience _including_ Lotor, be my guest.”

Lance shuts his mouth, accepting that Hunk had a point about that. “What if it just sounds stupid?”

“It’s for your eyes only, buddy,” Hunk says with a soft smile. “Say what you need to, before it eats you up inside.”

Hunk leaves as Lance sits, staring at the blank page as though it were taunting him before finally picking up the pen and trying to write down the mess in his head.

*****

Keith doesn’t know who could be knocking on his door at this time of night, the ticking clock steadily climbing towards midnight. His stomach jumps at the sudden noise in the quiet apartment, startling from where he had collapsed on the couch hours ago to only let his mind wander, puzzling over what the coming weeks may bring.

He hurries to the door to hush the insistent guest before Shiro gets woken up: this could be it, his travel arrangements hand delivered. For all he knew they would call for his immediate exit, barely enough time to grab his things before being sent on his merry way. If that was the case, should he wake Shiro, or write him a note goodbye and avoid the emotional scene?

It doesn’t matter either way as when he opens the door he finds Allura on the other side, curled fist still raised to continue banging on his door.

For a moment the pair of them stand frozen and stare at one another, unsure what to say to the other. It was weird, seeing Allura in his doorway: a small part of him felt like she only existed within the walls of the Café, like when you run into a schoolteacher in the real world.

“Keith,” She says, seemingly as surprised to see him as he is to see her.

He raises an eyebrow, “You forget I live here too?”

“I-I’m here to see Shiro,” She says, avoiding his eye.

He rolls his eyes and turns his back on her to return to his space on the couch. He could feel the waves of disgust rolling off of Allura as she looked at him, clearly considering whatever rumours that Lotor had spread, but frankly he was too tired to try convincing her of the truth: after all, with Lance staying quiet it was simply his word against Lotor’s.

Allura steps in with some uncertainty, her eyes following to where Keith is lying stretched across the couch. He absentmindedly waves her towards Shiro’s room, “You’re welcome to wake him.”

And that’s what she does: not being one to hang around, Allura begins banging on Shiro’s door in very much the same fashion as she had the front door, this time accompanying the banging with, “Shiro, get the hell up you old man!”

His door opens and Shiro stands on the other side, bedraggled and clearly trying to understand what was going on. He blinked blearily, asking with confusion, “Allura?”

“Since when are you in bed this early?” She asks, placing a hand on her hip.

“Since I don’t seem to have a job anymore,” He grumbles.

Allura flinches at that comment, her eyes flicking to where Keith lays collapsed. “About that-”

“What is it, ‘Llura?” Shiro asks, his voice thick with sleep. “You here to finally explain why I’m not allowed at work?”

“Erm,” She stumbles, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. “Not exactly-”

“Then I’ll thank you if you would let me sleep,” Shiro says, moving to close the door in her face.

But her hand shoots forwards to brace against the wood, refusing to have Shiro cut her out. “I want to invite you to a party,” She says. “At the club – tomorrow.”

Shiro sighs, noting the tension in her arm and accepting that she wasn’t going to leave so easily. Instead he opens the door wider, walking past her with a grumbled, “I need a cup of tea before I deal with whatever you’re offering.”

“Come _on_ Shiro,” Allura begs. “Please, please come with me. A little staff party, like old times! I don’t like not having you as my partner, come have an evening of fun with me.”

“I don’t exactly fancy going to a party hosted by my employer who basically told me to get lost without so much as a warning,” Shiro says, setting water on to boil before raising his voice slightly. “Keith, tea?”

In lieu of an answer, Keith just raises a hand into the air and gives Shiro a thumbs down.

“Allura?” Shiro offers, “Tea?”

“Sure,” She accepts, settling herself at the table. “And it’s not as cut and dry as that-”

“Well, I wouldn’t know,” Shiro says, “Because _no one_ told me otherwise.”

“Well, it’s…” Allura finds her gaze wandering in Keith’s direction again, before lowering her voice, “It’s complicated.”

Keith snorts, unable to keep from listening in to their conversation. 

Allura grimaces. “I’m sorry Shiro, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Just tell me what’s going on, ‘Llura,” Shiro says with a tired voice that had more to it than simply being woken from sleep. “I’m a big boy: just tell me the problem already.”

“Can we speak, in _private,”_ She says, nodding her head in Keith’s direction.

“Why?” Shiro asks. “Why even come here, Allura – you _knew_ I would have questions.”

“Look,” She relents, trying to toe a line while Keith is in the room. “There’s just been some…rumours going around, and Coran thought it would be easier for you if he gave you some space.”

“Rumours?” Shiro raises a brow, “What rumours?”

“They’re not about _you…_ ” She trails off, letting him fill in the blank.

“Keith?” He asks loudly, making her flinch as she wishes he would speak in the same hushed tones. “That’s what this is all about – some _rumours_?”

“Not just any rumours-”

“Well, what then?”

“Shiro, not here-”

“Allura, if our friendship means anything to you-”

“Maybe we should talk in another room-”

_“Allura!”_

“Fine!” She relents, smacking her hands on the table. “Fine, you want to make me say it? The rumours that Keith _raped_ someone at the Café, Shiro!”

“ _What?”_ Both Shiro and Keith shouted in unison, Keith popping up from where he had been lying on the couch.

“What the hell, Allura?” Shiro asks.

“What do you mean ‘ _raped_ ’?” Keith is frantic as he practically topples off the couch while getting to his feet.

Allura sighs and rubs her hand down her face, preparing herself for the onslaught from both sides.

“ _Who?”_ Shiro presses.

“Are you serious?” Keith shouts. He paces back and forth, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. “I mean, I _knew_ Lotor was sick, but this is too far-!”

“Keith?!” Shiro’s voice is raising to meet his flatmates, voices fighting to be heard. “What do _you_ mean?!”

“I knew Lotor had been spreading lies to get me out the club,” Keith explains, hands gesturing at the empty air in front of him. “I figured he had told everyone I had been harassing Lance, maybe covered up his handy work of bruises with the excuse that it was _me –_ I never thought he would go this far.”

“It’s not true?” Allura asks with an abnormally small voice, unsure if she should believe a word the writer said.

“Of _course_ it’s not true!” Keith spat. “What do you take me for? You _believed_ him?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Allura asked.

“Maybe _ask_ me!”

“ _Why_ would I want to ask for your personal account of the incident?”

“Oh, I don’t know-” Keith says sarcastically, feeling the rage boiling in his chest.

Shiro turns to tend to the now-boiling water, grabbing three cups in preparation for some well-needed tea. “Let’s all just sit down-”

“ _Maybe_ to check if the horrible thing Lotor was saying was actually _true?”_

Allura scowled, “If it was all a lie, why didn’t Lance say something?”

Keith looked at her, aghast, “You’re joking?” He turns to Shiro, shocked and at a loss, “She’s joking, right?”

Shiro looked between the two of them, both clearly on different pages from the other. “Maybe you should sit-”

But he had already turned back to Allura. “Don’t tell me you’re buying into whatever bullshit Lotor is selling,” Keith spat.

“It’s your word against his-”

Shiro tried to mediate the rising tension, watching Allura shift as though she were about to spring from her chair. “How about a nice cup-”

Allura carried on over Shiro calming words, “And, frankly, why would I choose to believe you over him?”

“Because!” Keith cried, trying to formulate words beyond the anger. Because…because… It felt like his brain had caught fire: apparently he could handle Lotor ripping he and Lance apart, and he could handle being shipped off to London without so much as a bon voyage, and he could handle the vague idea that Lotor had spread unfavourable rumours about him. But this? This vulgar fantasy that Lotor had spun was a unnecessarily cruel when all he needed to do was make his threat to get rid of Keith. “Because- because he- he’s the one who- who- GAH!”

He doesn’t know what happens between the moment where the pot of rage boils over and the next where he’s standing in the silent kitchen with his fist buried deep in the wall, plaster crumbling around him and knuckles throbbing – but he can certainly take a guess.

“That is _enough!”_ Shiro’s voice bellows with authority, making both Keith and Allura jump. “Allura, withhold your judgement and listen to what we have to say. Keith, get your goddamn fist out of the wall and your ass in a seat. We are all going to have a cup of tea and _calm the hell down!”_

Keith does as he asks, pulling his hand with bloodied knuckles from the wall and sitting heavily in the chair across from Allura, the pair glaring at each other like a couple of children.

“ _Now,”_ Shiro says firmly, setting tea down in front of them both before looking at each of them pointedly. “I will explain the situation to _you_ Allura, while _Keith_ will sit quietly and let me clear up the details without screaming and breaking something else. Is that understood?”

He looks unimpressed as the pair grumble their understanding, but it’s enough to placate Shiro. “Okay, good,” He says, taking a sip from his tea that was surely far too hot but not seeming to notice. “Allura – you need to believe me when I say that that vulgar rumour is _not_ true, and has been completely fabricated by Lotor. Nothing untoward has happened-”

Keith smirked, “ _See?”_

“Apart from Keith and Lance having an affair – but it was totally and completely consensual.”

“Wha-!” Keith shrieked, “Shiro!”

“Keith, quiet down and drink your tea,” Shiro ordered, waiting for the younger man to do as he was told before carrying on. Keith watched on silently, blowing air over the rippling surface to cool the drink and watching the steam swirl around Allura and Shiro.

“Keith, and Lance-?” Allura asked.

“Yes,” Shiro confirmed. “Lotor found out, though, and that’s where the rumours have stemmed from: he wants rid of Keith, and to make sure he doesn’t come back.”

“Come back?” She questions. “From where?”

“London. He’s going to leave any day now.”

Allura looks at Keith appraisingly, trying to find the lie on either of their faces. She sighs, leaning back into her chair. “I always thought Lance and Lotor were happy.”

Shiro shrugged, “We all did. Turns out it was just a convincing act.”

“But, why?” Allura wraps her hands around the comforting warmth of the mug, watching the steaming liquid. “Why stay together, if they don’t want to?”

“Lotor wants to,” Keith answers her. “And Lance made a deal with him.”

“What kind of deal?” She says, narrowing her eyes.

Keith sighs, figuring they may as well get it all out on the table while they were here. “For the club. It’s why Lotor stepped in to help – Lotor agreed to keep you guys afloat if Lance married him.”

Allura looked suitably horrified, eyes bulging out wide. “That can’t be true.”

Keith shrugs. “That’s what he told me.”

“Why?” She asks, looking to Shiro who appears as confused as she is. “Why would he do that?”

“We know Lance,” Shiro says, his voice sad as he finds himself scrutinising how the pair acted around one another the past two years. “You and I both know how much the Café means to him.”

“That’s not right,” Allura says with a shake of her head. “No business is so important that someone has to give up their life for it. We’ll find another way, Lance doesn’t-”

“It doesn’t matter, Allura,” Keith tells her, leaving his undrunk tea on the table and crossing his arms across his chest. “Lance has made his choice – let it lie.”

“No way – there’s no way Coran could live with himself if he-”

“It’s Lance’s decision,” He presses, levelling her with a heavy gaze. “You and Coran didn’t force him into it: he did it because he wanted to help. He’s asked me to respect his decision, I think you should too.”

Allura meets his eye and the pair stare at one another for a long, wordless moment, Allura seeming to consider his words. “And you’re going to London – why?”

He shrugs. “To give them some space? To get some space for myself? It doesn’t really matter, I’m going.”

“Does Lance know?”

“I-” He had gotten into a rhythm of answering her questions quickly and curtly, but this one caught him off guard. “I- I honestly don’t know. But it doesn’t matter-”

“Of _course_ it matters. Keith, you need to help him see reason-”

“Allura,” He implores, “He has told me point blank he doesn’t want anything to do with me. He has made his decision, and I have made mine: you can’t just change my mind through force of will.”

She huffs, mirroring him and crossing her arms as well.

“It’s not for us to get involved, ‘Llura,” Shiro says softly.

She scowls, “This doesn’t sit right with me.”

“Well, what can we-?”

“We can sneak you into the party!” She bursts with excitement, the two men raising a simultaneous eyebrow. “So you can have a chance to speak to him, without Lotor interrupting.”

Keith sighs, “It’s not a good id-”

“I’m not saying you should try and change his mind,” She says. “Clearly you’re both so stubborn that no word from me will convince you otherwise. But, don’t you want the chance to say goodbye?”

Keith’s mouth goes dry at the suggestion, his silence giving him away.

“Don’t do anything you don’t want to,” She promises. “But if you want help getting into the party for a final chance to speak to him, I can help.”

A small smirk has begun to come over Shiro’s lips, his basically-brother giving him a look that makes Keith roll his eyes. “Not you too, Shiro. We don’t need all this overly-complicated, emotional crap-”

“I think you _do,_ Keith,” Shiro says. “Just think about the last time you saw Lance, and tell me if you want that to be your final memory with him?”

Keith does as he asks and is met with the memory of Lance, face pale and terrified, at the backdoor of the club, trying to hide bruised wrists and begging him to leave him alone. Or the time before that, rejecting him with a chilling cruelty as Lotor watches on from the side lines. It felt like so, _so,_ long since he had had the chance to talk to Lance without the mask and theatrics, when they could just enjoy being together.

Shiro sees the look on his face and grins at Allura, “He’s in.”

“Excellent,” She mirrors his smile. “We’ll sneak you in the back entrance once the party is in full swing tomorrow, then one of us can drag Lance into the backroom-”

“Actually, I have an idea how I would like to say goodbye,” Keith says. “Do you think you could ask Coran if I can come into the club tomorrow afternoon to finish some work before I leave?”

“Sure, but why-?”

“And make sure Hunk is the one supervising me. I have a favour to ask him.”

Allura looks wholly confused, but she listens to Keith’s demands and then nods, “I’m sure I can twist my brother’s arm.”

*****

Lance never though he would say it, but he is _sick_ of parties.

He would much rather be at home, hiding away from the world – especially considering he was somehow supposed to be performing in a play tomorrow night. Yes he knew his lines through and through by now, but it would have been a comfort to be able to sit on the living room floor with Hunk and run through them just to be sure.

Instead he needed to dress nicely and smile prettily and hang off of Lotor’s arm and he was _over it._ He just wanted to go home.

Something had changed with being in the Café. Don’t get him wrong, he would still give his right arm to save this place and the people within it, but recently the air had felt stuffy, a cloying thickness that hung heavy in his throat. He could pretend that his altered perceptions were due to Lotor’s constant presence, but he knew better than to try and lie to himself to that regard.

It was Keith: or rather, the lack thereof. Every second here reminded him of the writer: the look on his face when Lance had crawled into his lap the first time he had watched him perform, that flustered blush that he couldn’t seem to control, the kisses they had foolishly shared beneath this roof.

Lance had made his decision, yes: it didn’t mean that it was getting any easier.

There were small silver linings to being Lotor’s arm candy: namely, if Lance didn’t feel like talking it was easily ignored. Afterall, he was first and foremost here to look pretty, anything over and above that was extra credit. So standing quietly at Lotor’s side was acceptable as the Duke easily talked enough for the both of them.

Lotor was animated, a manic light in his eyes as he swept through the performers, all stroking his ego or simply too uneasy around him to say anything more substantial than a strained compliment. Not that Lotor was complaining: it meant he got to dominate his conversations, leading them in the direction he wished.

The wall of Lotor’s social skills was a comfort to hide behind: if all Lance had to focus on was keeping his smile in place then that made his role all the more easy.

That was, until he heard Coran shouting above the din, “Allura! You’re late.”

Allura saunters in with a laugh and a swish of her long, white hair, dragging her guest along with her. “Sorry,” She calls, loud enough to make sure everyone could hear her, “You know how long it takes Shiro to get ready!”

There is a ripple of awkward laughter at her words, and Lance feels Lotor stiffen at his side. The room can read the tension: they _know_ Shiro isn’t supposed to be here. They _know_ he’s supposed to be staying away until the vulgar rumours die down. What about Lance, they must be thinking – he had been through something traumatic, he needed space from anything ‘Keith’ related.

And, looking at the singer, they would think they were right. His face was stricken, having instantly paled once Shiro arrived. But not for the reason everyone else assumed.

Lance wanted to talk to him: wanted to storm across the room and pester him with questions, wanted to apologise for getting him swept up in his mess. He doubted Shiro even knew why he had been cast out from the Café, and he didn’t know if that was better or worse than the reality.

But the firm grip of Lotor’s hand on his forearm was a silent but well-understood warning: stay away. So far, the vulgar rumours had spread untamed with Lance’s lack of a testimony, and with the subject manner as it was no one was going to press him to answer their questions. But Shiro knew Keith well enough to see through that lie: he would ask for Lance’s confirmation of the events, and he wasn’t sure he could give it. Yes, when it called for it, he could keep his mouth shut when it mattered and people read his silence as they liked, but he didn’t think he could outright lie and say the words that would condemn the writer.

Lotor knew this well enough, which was why he was steering the pair of them in the opposite direction from Allura and her unexpected guest.

As the evening progressed, Lance proceeded to feel more and more awful each time he caught sight of Shiro. The performer looked downright miserable in this room that was supposed to be filled with close friends, because instead of settling into easy conversation he was treated as though he had the plague, he and Allura exiled to circle the edge of the room, their only company that of Coran, Hunk or Pidge who all seemed to take turns to check in with the pair.

It made him feel sick, that the mistakes he had made meant that Shiro had lost his pseudo-family. It was one thing to ruin your own life: it was another entirely to ruin someone else’s through collateral damage.

This time when he caught sight of Shiro, Shiro was staring straight back at him before realising their eyes had met and tearing his gaze away. It piqued Lance’s interest, watching how he, Allura and Hunk talked amongst themselves in an almost suspicious manner, shooting glances over their shoulders at any partygoers that seemed to step just a little too close to them.

Even as he lost sight of them, he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Call him paranoid but he was certain of two things: 1) they were up to something, and 2) it had something to do with him.

The apprehension in his gut was not a welcome feeling.

*****

“Why is it so goddamn hot in here?” Keith huffed, sweeping his fringe back from his forehead and shrugging off his jacket. They had only made it as far as the dressing room after sneaking him in through the performer’s entrance, but he was already sweating despite the mild evening outside.

“This building always seems to suck the day’s heat in and hold onto it,” Shiro tells him. “Trust us, it’s downright evil in the middle of the summer.”

“No kidding,” Keith says without humour, recognising Shiro’s dressing table and slinging his jacket over the back of the chair. If it was going to be this hot the entire time he was here, he doubted he would need the extra insulation.

“So, what’s the plan?” Pidge asked with bright eyes. She had sniffed out a plot from a mile away, knowing straight off that Allura and Shiro were up to something and demanding to be let in on what was going on. Begrudgingly the pair had told her, not wanting too many people to know what they were trying to do but ultimately trusting the barhand.

“That’s a good question,” Allura says, looking at Keith expectantly. “Perhaps you would like to tell us what you and Hunk were up to today? I had to practically _beg_ Coran to let you into the club: he cancelled two hours’ worth of rehearsals to make sure no one came near, and sent Lance home for the day. Suffice to say, he was not happy and I now have to choreograph a further five new acts for him on top of everything else I need to do.”

Keith and Hunk glance at one another, the pianist the only one up until now privy to Keith’s intentions. Hunk nibbles at his lip and Keith can tell they may as well come clean since the pianist didn’t seem to enjoy harbouring a secret.

“Okay,” He says, tying his hair back into a low ponytail. “Now, remember this is _my_ choice about how I want to handle things. Is that understood?”

Allura looks at him with a confused expression, but Shiro already looks exasperated as he stage whispers to her, “This is where he wimps out and runs away-”

“Shiro,” Keith snaps, ignoring the smirk on his roommate’s face. “Anyway, I’m not here to say goodbye to Lance-”

“ _What?”_ Pidge and Allura shriek as one.

“ _Told you!”_ Shiro groaned with a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Will you let me speak?” Keith growls to quieten them, all looking at him like they were waiting on the punchline. “I’m not saying goodbye in the _traditional_ sense. Going face to face to talk to him, to say goodbye, is both a waste of time at this point as well as being near impossible with Lotor watching his every move.”

“We can distract him-” Allura tries to say.

“Not long enough to tell Lance everything I want to,” Keith says with authority, refusing to be swayed in his decision. “Besides, Shiro can attest to how terrible I am with face-to-face conversations when it comes to…feelings, and stuff.”

“I don’t think I need to convince them of that,” Shiro says under his breath, earning a half-hearted glare.

“This is how I want to do it,” Keith tells them. “I appreciate all of your help, especially giving me the chance to do things my way.”

A heavy arm is thrown around his shoulders as Shiro pulls him into his side for a half-hug. “We’re doing this to help you get some closure, by whatever means.”

“Thank you,” Keith says, and he means it. He meets Shiro halfway and pulls him the rest of the way into a hug, holding tight to his muscular frame for possibly the longest embrace of Keith’s life. While he doesn’t yet know when he’s leaving, he can’t seem to shake the feeling that this will be the last genuine interaction he has with Shiro before he disappears. Despite his aversion to most human contact, he finds himself savouring it.

“Okay,” He says with a voice that sounds awfully close to tears as he breaks apart from Shiro. “Go back and enjoy your party,” He tells them. “Hunk can take it from here.”

Pidge looks downright disappointed that she isn’t getting more of an opportunity to cause mischief. “That’s it?” She asks _._

Keith shrugs, his voice laced with sarcasm, “That’s it. Thanks for your help – you did a great job unlocking the door.”

She rolls her eyes, “Oh, bite me.”

“I don’t know where you’ve been,” He smirks.

“You’re lucky you’re leaving the country, Kogane,” She says with mock menace, pointing a finger at him. "Getting a free pass to avoid my retaliation."

“How about we get moving?” Shiro cuts in between the two before the evening is lost to nonsensical bickering. “You know, _before_ the party ends.”

They start to mill out of the room, Shiro noting Keith hanging back and doing the same.

“You sure you’re not going to speak to him?” Shiro asks him.

Keith nods, sad but determined. “This is enough for me. He’ll know that…” Keith clears his voice, quelling the rising blush on his cheeks. “He’ll know what I need him to: that’s all I need.”

“Okay,” Shiro nods, trying to give him an encouraging smile. He inclines his head towards the door. “You coming?”

“To the party? No,” Keith says. “I’ll stand in the back and watch. No one needs to know that I’m here.”

He and Shiro share a look between them, communicating something raw and powerful that only they can understand, before Shiro turns and takes after the others, giving Keith some time alone in the dressing room.

This place had always scared him, especially with its hollow silence when it was empty. Only now the room’s quiet wasn’t daunting, no longer a gaping void but rather seeming to be holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable fallout.

He glances around once more, sighing into the emptiness before leaving it behind him.

*****

It’s like an icy calm has settled over Lance: comments and jokes bounce off of him as though he's stone, his mouth supplying an answer like a reflex in the rare moments a question is directed at him. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much that Shiro and Allura had seemed to disappear, but without them in his sights he felt the itch of anxiety beneath his skin, the threat of something coming that he wasn’t prepared for.

So it was both a shock and relief when a large hand clapped his shoulder, physically shaking the ice off as Lance turned and smiled genuinely for the first time this evening.

“Hunk,” he said with relief. In that moment the paranoia calmed as he let himself get swept up in Hunk’s calm: he felt silly, thinking that Hunk would be planning something vindictive against him with the others. He was his best friend: he would never do this to him.

“Mind if I borrow your man for a moment or two, Duke Galran?” Hunk says overly politely, practically batting his eyelashes at Lotor. Lance raises an eyebrow, that niggling sense of paranoia returning.

“To what end?” Lotor asks, looking Hunk up and down critically as though scanning for weapons or ill intent.

“I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” Hunk says, and Lance becomes as intrigued as he is concerned.

Lotor doesn’t look convinced, watching Hunk with suspicion. “What surprise-”

Regardless of Lance’s concern, his main focus is on the fact that Hunk is offering a reprieve from Lotor and that damn smile that has left his cheeks aching. Before thinking about whatever was coming he quickly detaches himself from Lotor’s arm and takes hold of Hunk. “Come on, Lotor,” He drawls, trying to hide his suspicious reasons for wanting to escape. “You love surprises.”

Lotor raises an unimpressed brow, “I _hate_ surprises.”

“You’ll love this one,” Hunk promises before eyeing Lance pointedly. “ _Won’t he,_ Lance?”

“Oh-” Lance fumbles for a moment, trying to get on board with Hunk. “Oh- yes, _of course_ he will.”

Lotor huffs, looking critically between the two but failing to understand Hunk’s intent. “Very well,” Lotor shrugs, displeased but not having a reason to stop Lance: at least, a reason that would be reasonable in front of the group they were talking with. “But don’t be long.”

“I won’t,” Lance says, placing the barest of kisses to Lotor’s cheek in farewell before practically turning boneless to allow Hunk to drag him away.

He doesn’t dare speak until he’s been brought to the stage, hidden behind a thick layer of velvet from the curtains. “What’s going on?” Lance asks suspiciously, looking around for a clue as to what is about to happen.

“I thought we could put on a small performance,” Hunk says innocently, “Some entertainment, for the party.”

“For the party?” Lance asks, not fooled. “And you’re just springing this on me, no warning?”

“Well, I was _going_ to,” Hunk says quickly. “But Coran sent you home this afternoon. Besides, you’re a professional, you can handle an impromptu performance.”

“Hmmph,” Lance says, pursing his lips. Despite the innocent request he can tell that there’s more to it beneath the surface, if only he could work out what that was. Still, he didn’t want to deny Hunk and return back to Lotor’s side so quickly: if it was just a song Hunk was looking for, it would be a good opportunity to recharge his batteries to get him through the rest of the evening.

“ _Fine,”_ Lance gives in. “What did you have in mind – ‘Toxic’ always does well.”

“No, no,” Hunk says with a quick shake of his head, leading Lance over to the piano so he can take a seat at the keys. “I’ve got something new I want to try.”

“Something…new? Without a rehearsal?”

Hunk just shrugs, hiding his expression by focusing on the keys instead of looking directly at Lance. “It’s just our friends listening, where’s the harm? Besides, I thought you _liked_ improvising?”

“Well, yeah,” Lance says. “But usually _I’m_ the one in control and you guys follow after me.” His eyes drop to the paper covered in scrawling ink that Hunk hands him, looking over what he supposes must be the lyrics. “What is this?”

“Something I wrote for the show that didn’t make it into the final version.” It was a well known fact that Hunk was a terrible liar, and this conversation was no different. However, he counted his lucky stars that Lance was so distracted looking over the lyrics he didn’t pick up on Hunk’s attempts at deception.

“For the show?” Lance asks, puzzled. “Where was this supposed to fit?”

Hunk pauses for a moment before saying, “After the scarfweaver thinks the painter willingly left him behind – since the scarfweaver never finds out the Prince had him killed.”

“Oh,” Lance says, his throat suddenly parched and thinking to run for a glass of water before this strange performance that Hunk is insisting. “Are you going to play a few bars and let me get the melody?

“No, you’ll be fine,” Hunk says dismissively, looking into the darkness at the edge of the stage. Lance follows his gaze to find Pidge standing in the shadows, clutching the ropes for the curtains and waiting to open them.

Lance’s stomach drops. “Hunk-”

But Hunk nods to Pidge, and suddenly the small barhand is throwing all of her weight into pulling at the ropes, drawing the curtains open.

The piano stands to the edge of the stage, still shielded by velvet, but Lance watches with horror as the fabric draws closer to revealing him standing there like a lost fool. “ _Hunk,”_ He pleads, “What’s going on?”

“You’ll be fine,” Hunk promises with a whisper. “Trust me – you’ll recognise the melody quick enough.”

And while Lance highly doubts it he can’t argue as the curtains are completely swept back and he and Hunk are revealed to the hall.

His mouth is _so_ dry, and for the first time in he doesn’t know how long he feels nervous standing in front of an expectant audience, those stupid jewels at his throat catching the light and turning him into a shining beacon that draws every eye in the room to him.

But before Lance can complain anymore Hunk is playing, looking at Lance expectantly to start singing.

It’s a disaster: it’s horrible as Lance hears his warbling voice struggle to pick up the first couple of lines, out of time and out of tune.

_‘I heard that you’re settled down,_

_That you found a boy and you’re married now.’_

It’s horrible, and awful, and his face is burning from every pair of eyes that are staring and wondering what the hell he was doing. He feels like crumbling, but Hunk keeps giving him encouraging looks over his shoulder because, despite the fact that he thinks he doesn’t know what he’s doing, Lance is singing the lyrics exactly as they were intended.

_‘I heard that your dreams came true,_

_Guess he gave you things I didn’t give to you.’_

As Keith had promised to Hunk, Lance knew this song. The lyrics may be new, but a part of him knew this melody and how it would rise and fall, his body subconsciously swaying to the beat. Lance may not be actively aware of it, but it was clear he knew this song.

_‘I hate to turn up out of the blue, uninvited,_

_But I couldn’t stay away, I couldn’t fight it.’_

There’s a niggling thought at the back of Lance’s mind that he doesn’t have the attention to give to work out what is bothering him. But these words are beginning to flow easier from his lips, somehow anticipating where Hunk is going to take them next, and he can’t explain _how_ he knows how.

Hunk said he would recognise the melody – but from _where?!_

_‘I had hoped you’d see my face_

_And that you’d be reminded that for me,_

_It isn’t over.’_

He lets his eyes stay focused on the piece of paper with the lyrics, ignoring his performer-instincts to look up and engage with his audience. Despite how blasé Hunk had tried to be, there was something here that the pianist wanted him to find. But _what?_

_‘Never mind, I’ll find someone like you_

_I wish nothing but the best for you._

_“Don’t forget me,” I beg._

_I remember you said_

_“Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead.” ’_

It’s so frustrating Lance wants to scream, or simply demand that everyone _stop_ so that he can close his eyes and put his fingers in his ears and work out where this song is trying to draw him, demanding to be remembered but Lance failing to make the connection.

_‘You know how the time flies,_

_Only yesterday was the time of our lives.’_

He’s trying to ignore it, trying to stamp out that annoying niggling feeling at the back of his head that’s screaming that he knows this song for a reason. Because what could the reason _actually_ be, besides probably having heard it when Hunk was playing around on the keys or humming an absentminded tune in the apartment.

_‘Never mind, I’ll find someone like you…’_

He’s not even paying attention to the words leaving his mouth anymore, too preoccupied in find out where this melody had come from. He felt so close, so frustratingly close, to placing where the lilting tune had come from, exactly why he knew it and why it felt so goddamned important!

_‘I wish nothing but the best for you, too.’_

He looks to his audience for just a moment, unable to keep his theatrical instincts in check. He needs to at least glance out, to read the room and garner a reaction. He needs to know he’s not standing up here looking like a complete idiot.

It’s then that his eyes sweep over the back of the room, and he almost swallows his tongue.

_‘ “Don’t forget me,” I beg,’_

_Keith._

Is this a dream – those dark eyes, boring into him even from this distance, are they real? Is he really standing in the shadows at the back of the hall, watching Lance with the same transfixed gaze he always had when Lance sang?

‘ _I remember you said,’_

And that’s it, that’s the thread of connection he had been missing. In an instant it floods back with a sense of satisfaction at finally placing the melody, Lance blinking and remembering waking up at Keith’s side and wanting a change _desperately._

_‘ “Sometimes it lasts in love-’_

Of the surge of panic that had tried to drag him down, tried to take him – of the anxiety that Keith had pushed back by humming something sweet and soft, letting the music find Lance in the rising darkness and help him find a way out.

_‘But sometimes it hurts instead.” ’_

This was _Keith’s song._ After all that time, his brain screaming at him to remember, it’s so clear now he can’t understand how he hadn’t placed the tune immediately. This was the song that Keith shared with him while they had lay in bed together: one of the many things Keith shared with him.

_‘Nothing compares, no worries or cares,’_

And that’s when it hits Lance.

He looks over the page, looks for his upcoming lyrics, and that’s when it hits him.

Slams him in the chest with the force of a bullet, almost knocking him backwards right onto his ass.

_‘Regrets and mistakes, they’re memories made.’_

This is a goodbye.

Whatever is going to happen, whatever is coming, Keith won’t be here.

And Lance knew that that’s what he was choosing: Lotor over Keith. He knew what he was giving up, he looked at the situation with logic and made the best choice he could: knew that Keith would be moving on, leaving him far behind so he can move on.

But there was no logic here.

He knew, deep in his gut, as he stood there on this stage, that he couldn’t live without Keith. Couldn’t live if this was the last time he ever saw the writer.

This couldn’t be goodbye.

‘ _“Sometimes it lasts in love- ’_

Could it?

_‘ “but sometimes it hurts instead” ’_

But as he begins the final chorus, the look on Keith’s face confirms it all. This is going to be the last time: the last look, the last song, the last moment. This is where they end, and there will not be a reprise.

He sings these words that Keith wrote for him, and he feels the anger rise. Anger at Lotor’s threats, at Keith’s sweet words, at himself for allowing this to happen! He’s lost everything, and all because he refused to let himself hold onto such a good thing.

Could they have made it, if they had been naïve enough to try?

Lance panics as Keith turns away, making for the nearest exit and turning his back on everything. Lance panics, wanting to shout out to him, but caught in the music’s melody, the scribbled handwriting on the paper that has taken him too long to recognise as Keith’s.

It hurts, having his final words to Keith written out for him, Keith even scripting their goodbye. It’s sweet, these words he has given him, but he needs to give Keith something. Keith _needs_ to know that Lance will never again find peace once he loses Keith once and for all.

As the final repetition of the chorus arrives he crumbles the paper into a ball and lets it fall to the floor: he doesn’t need it for what he wants to say.

Hunk is close enough to hear the paper hit the ground and looks curiously over his shoulder, trying to understand what Lance wants to do but continuing to play without pause.

Keith has given him so much: the least that Lance can give him is a promise.

‘ _I will never find someone like you,’_

The lyric change is seamless, the audience caught up in what they to believe the lament of the scarfweaver. Except for Keith, who pauses in his exit, his body rigid. Despite himself he turns back around, Lance always having the power to draw him back in.

_‘From the moment we first met, I knew._

_You’re all I’ll ever need,_

_Cross my heart and hope to bleed._

_I can’t lose you, I’m not ready to follow your lead.’_

Keith hears those words, and still he turns his back on Lance. He hears those words and he doesn’t take them. He leaves and the words are abandoned at his back, singing out into a hall that may as well be empty if Keith isn’t there.

Lance can barely finish the song, but somehow he does, refusing to give up so close to the end.

_‘I can’t lose you, I’m not ready to follow your lead.’_

*****

Keith had always known that Lance’s voice singing along to the melody his mother once hummed to him as a lullaby would be a match made in heaven, and as Lance sang Keith was proven right. Even without reading over the words Lance was unbelievable, performing Keith’s farewell to a crowd of onlookers, yet as always making Keith feel like the only person in the room.

It hurt, this bittersweet moment where Lance’s voice met the treasured memory of his mother, wrapping him up in the promise of being kept safe, yet knowing all the while that he was about to step from the cliff edge and lose it all. He tried to commit the waning minutes to memory, each precious second one closer to the end.

“I should have known you would crash the party.”

He refuses to turn towards the presence at his back, stubbornly refusing to miss a second of Lance’s performance. “I was just saying goodbye,” He tells Lotor as the Duke comes to stand at his side, watching his fiancé with a comical expression on his face.

“I suppose I can’t fault you for that,” Lotor hums, reaching into his suit jacket. “Besides, you’ve saved me a trip. Here-”

The word is punctuated with an envelope being given to him. He sorrowfully drags his eyes from the stage to take the envelope and ripping it open to find an assortment of tickets and instructions.

“You are leaving in the morning: 9am.” Lotor says, noting how Keith doesn’t take the time to look through the information and instead returns his eyes to the stage. “I hope you’re prepared.”

“As I’ll ever be,” Keith sighs, gripping the envelope hard enough to crease the paper beneath his fingers.

Lotor nods, “Good. We can finally all put this behind us.”

Keith doesn’t say anything, hoping the conversation is over so he can enjoy the last of Lance’s singing in peace.

“Don’t be too disappointed in yourself with how this turned out,” Lotor tells him, taking what time he has left to gloat. “A silly idea like ‘love’ was never going to be a match for what I can give Lance.”

“As long as you make sure he’s happy, I have no complaints.” Keith turns to him for a precious few seconds, missing more of the performance so he can meet Lotor’s eye as he says, “Take care of him: he deserves it.”

Lotor nods to him silently and turns his back on the writer, returning to the hall of awestruck performers watching Lance as he sways on the stage, staring down at the words on the page.

Keith sighs, able to take a deep breath with the Duke’s exit, carelessly folding the envelope in half so he can stuff it into the pocket of his trousers, sitting there heavy as a stone.

So this was really it? In the back of his mind Keith had expected to have a couple more days left in the only city he’s ever known, but the early exit doesn’t make that much of a difference in the grand scheme of things. All he would have done was mope in the apartment, maybe make the most of the time he had left with Shiro. But he had never been one for long goodbyes: leaving so soon, it was probably for the best.

_‘ “Don’t forget me,” I beg.’_

His voice hitches painfully in his throat as suddenly, across a crowd of onlookers, Lance’s eyes meet Keith. Even from this distance Keith can see Lance’s face light up at getting to see him in the flesh, voice stuttering over the words in the quietest way, not letting himself lose the melody.

Keith indulges and lets himself hold Lance’s gaze, refusing to deny himself these final moments where Lance is looking at him like he’s the whole world. He can see the gears turning in Lance’s head, the instant he understands the song for what it is, how he can _see_ the heartbreak in the singer’s eyes. He looks both impossibly sad and joyful as he takes the words that Keith has gifted him: after everything they had been through together immortalised in scrawling ink on paper, Keith’s final wishes delivered in the very language of song that Lance had opened his eyes to.

Keith makes himself turn to leave: despite wanting to have each and every second of Lance’s voice stored safely in his mind, he can’t bare the thought of watching as Lance delivers the final lines. He can’t physically watch this end, forced to acknowledge when the words run out and silence rules. So he turns because he will savour this memory of an unfinished song, never having to watch the door fully close and lock him out from the only chance at happiness he’s ever known.

He wants to leave, but as always Lance knows just how to draw him back in: always knows the words to say to maintain control over the weak-hearted writer, too bewitched to do anything but turn around and listen.

_‘I will never find someone like you,_

_From the moment we first met, I knew._

_You’re all I’ll ever need,_

_Cross my heart and hope to bleed._

_I can’t lose you, I’m not ready to follow your lead.’_

Keith had given this song as a gift so it could always remind Lance that Keith wished him the best in his life. It didn’t matter that Keith had lost him so long as Lance could live a happy and fulfilling life. Keith had given these words so that Lance knew that he didn’t regret a single _second_ of their time together.

What he hadn’t expected was Lance to give those words right back.

A lump rises in his throat and it’s with horror that he realises his view of Lance is becoming blurry from the tears building in his eyes. He can feel a crushing pressure in his chest, biting his lip to hold in his sobs.

He has to turn around, has to leave before the music stops and loses his willpower, pushing at the front doors that someone had left graciously unlocked and escaping into the street before the tears overflow and run down his cheeks. He wants to collapse onto the ground and let the rising dark in his chest take over, let himself get lost for a while. But he remains standing and marches himself home, crossing his arms over his chest as though that will contain the sobs that splutter past his lips regardless.

He knew saying goodbye wasn’t going to be easy: however, what he hadn’t counted on was Lance saying the exact words he had dreamed about him whispering in his ear, the words that promised him the world and more just because Lance was with him.

His willpower to keep standing almost breaks entirely as he stands in front of the door to his flat and remembers leaving his jacket, along with his keys, in the dressing room of the club. His knees turn to jelly and threaten to buckle beneath the weight in his chest, his head falling forward so he can rest his forehead on the wood panelling of the door.

He lets the tears fall past his eyes, dripping to land on the loose floorboard under his feet that creaks beneath his shifting weight. A floorboard that had been gently pried loose to reveal a small space below, perfect for concealing something small enough.

‘ _For emergencies,’ the memory of Shiro whispers in his mind, slotting the wood back into place._

_‘Someone will use it to break in,’ Keith had scoffed._

But he wasn’t scoffing now, dropping to his knees and pulling the wood free to reveal that small space below, the silver of a spare key glinting in the low light.

New sobs take over Keith’s chest as he takes the key, terrified of his coming future without Shiro’s meticulous foresight to look after him. He lets himself in, struggling to insert the key into the slot with his shaking hands and tear-filled eyes.

He turns the knob and stumbles across the threshold, slamming the door at his back and _finally_ letting his body turn boneless, knees knocking against the floor and back collapsing against the closed door. He draws his knees up to his chest and, for the first time in longer than he can remember, he just lets himself cry.

*****

_~~‘What I’m saying is…it was nice, while it lasted. I’m sorry it couldn’t have been more, you deserve the world and I wish I could have been the one to give it to you. But my mistakes have caught up to me, and I refuse to let them take hold of you too. I promise both of us that this is for the best – you will be better off without me.~~ _

_~~I would have loved to love you.~~ _

_~~Yours sincerely,~~ _

_~~Lance’~~ _

It’s bullshit: utter bullshit, these words he had written in stubborn denial. This sentiment he’s trying to sell that he’ll move past this: it’s all lies. A pathetic attempt at closure and to fool himself that this chosen future was their best chance.

He hates these words and can’t stop himself from heavily striking through them, dragging pen tip and ink across the page in angry slashes. Whatever his truth is it’s bubbling up inside and turning his mind cloudy, his hand writing a new end to his letter in a desperate bid to clear his thoughts.

This stupid fake-letter wasn’t going to work if he couldn’t even be honest with himself, and so he wrote out in plain ink exactly what he wanted, signing his name and dropping the pen onto the page, leaving a large splatter of ink in the bottom corner. He was breathing heavily, reading and rereading the final paragraph, going over and over his words and wishing they weren’t true. Because he knew, he _knew,_ exactly what he was denying himself.

He still wouldn’t cry, but he did let himself collapse into his crossed arms on the dressing table and try to calm himself with deep breaths. He knew he couldn’t hide in the dressing room forever: eventually he needed to resurface at the party and pretend that everything was fine. Granted, it was harder to do that now that he had his confession written out plain as day in front of him, the truth pulling at the wound he had allowed to scab over deep in his chest to leave it inflamed and weeping once more, but admitting the truth to himself couldn’t change the present. He just needed to breathe-

“…Lance?”

A voice whispers gently at his side and he feels a shiver of fright crawl up his spine, making him sit up so quick he almost collides with the face that had been hovering close to check on him, narrowly avoiding giving Shiro a broken nose.

“Shiro?” He breathes, that aching sore in his chest making talking difficult. “What are you-”

“I came to get a few things,” Shiro says softly, pulling a chair up towards Lance and settling down, watching him with steady but unassuming eyes. “From my dressing table: no point keeping them here, right?” He smiles gently, but Lance just feels more terrible as he recalls how Shiro has been caught up in all of this.

He tries to clear his throat, “I think you’ll be back in no time. Since…” His voice trails off, absentmindedly nibbling at his lip and avoiding Shiro’s eye.

“Since Keith will be gone soon?” Shiro fills in, watching as Lance raises his hands to bury his face in them. The older man runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands of white at the front that had discoloured from years of struggling on the streets, malnourished and on the edge of starving as he forced his share of food into Keith’s small hands. “It doesn’t matter: I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

“Why?” Lance asks, moving his fingers enough to be able to watch Shiro from the side.

The man looks sad as he says, “I don’t think I can, not after what’s happened recently. It wouldn’t feel…right.”

“I know what you mean,” Lance mumbles into his palms. He feels weak as he crosses his arms on the dressing table and slumps down to rest his sharp chin over his wrists, watching Shiro in the mirror to avoid direct eye contact with him. “I always thought this place was my home, but recently it feels much more like a prison.”

“Did I ever tell you how I got hired here?” Shiro says. Lance suspects it’s a distraction technique to perk him up and get him to suck it up, but he lets himself be drawn in as he shakes his head.

The corner of Shiro’s mouth curled up in a fond smile, his eyes glancing around the dressing room. “I was a stupid kid at the time: never _quite_ as stupid as Keith, but stupid enough,” He chuckles, watching the soft look in Lance’s eyes at the mere mention of the writer. “The streets of Paris are harsh and unforgiving, and it’s what Keith and I considered as home for a very long time: we figured anything was better than the orphanage that smelled of rot and disease we had both ended up in as kids. We became hardened and selfish because we were tired of the world taking everything we had and leaving us with nothing, so it’s no real surprise that we ended up as petty criminals to survive.

“It’s not a safe life, a criminal in Paris. Even small-time thieves like us were in danger, the judicial system doing its best to make an example of every criminal they caught hold of in order to deter others. I once heard about a guy who was imprisoned for nineteen years for stealing a loaf of _bread!”_

“No way,” Lance says with wide eyes. “For _bread?_ I don’t believe it.”

Shiro just shrugs, “It’s what I heard. But it didn’t matter: we needed to steal to survive, so no threat of punishment would have been enough to deter us.

“It had started as swiping food from carts or the baskets of unsuspecting shoppers as they stopped for a chat with an old friend on the street. But eventually we grew tired of swiping just enough to stay alive: we started taking more and more, no longer wanting to take food when we were hungry but instead managing to stock up for days at a time. We began to sell some of the excess to others who survived the streets as we did, trading for whatever they had but always favouring the sound of coin landing in our palms.

“You see, for someone who had never touched money before, _having_ it was an amazing feeling. It made you feel like you actually belonged in this world instead of the dirty underbelly, and we wanted more.

“So that’s when the real stealing began,” Shiro says, looking ashamed of himself as he does so. “We teamed up with a few other kids we knew on the street and fashioned weapons, preying on street vendors who stayed too long after the crowds had thinned out in the evenings. We would take everything they had, not caring that we left them with nothing.

“The Café de L’Altea was the first actual business we targeted,” Shiro says, meeting Lance’s surprised eyes and blushing. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, okay? A busy club that always had a line outside of the door: they must have had _tonnes_ of money in there, we would have been set for weeks.

“I didn’t let Keith come with us,” Shiro said. “He was a few years younger than us, and I was nervous enough about robbing the club without the added pressure of keeping an eye on him. He wasn’t happy to be left behind, but luckily he was still young enough that he actually listened to me. A trait he very quickly lost.”

Lance chuckles at the image of young Keith, scruffy and scowling up at Shiro and refusing to take no for an answer.

“Turns out leaving Keith behind was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made: we had no idea that Coran usually stays so late he falls asleep at his desk. We also had no idea he kept a gun on hand, just in case.

“Suffice to say the others I was with bolted pretty quickly, but with that gun being pointed right at me, I was terrified…” Shiro trails off for a moment, eyes cloudy as he watches it all over again in his mind's eye. “I had never had a gun pointed at me before: I thought if I so much as twitched a muscle, the thing would go off and that would be the end.

“Coran…” Shiro sighs. “Coran lowered the gun as soon as I started crying and begging him not to turn me in: I was so scared for the police to take me away, not for my own sake but for the fact I would leave Keith behind with no idea what had happened. I apologised, over and over, for what we had planned to do, and he sat there and actually listened to me.

“I-I think he saw something in me? To this day, I’m not sure: all I know is that Coran and Allura hadn’t had the best of starts in life either, and he never given Allura details on what it was he did to keep them safe and fed. But I think he saw a bit of himself in me and, ignoring the sensible option to call for the police, he offered me a job. Just as a waiter, at first, dancing around drunken patrons and avoiding spilling trays of drinks on them, clearing the tables at the end of the night and wishing customers weren’t so stingy with the tips.

“And then Allura and I became friends, and one drunken night at someone’s birthday party she demanded that I let her teach me to dance. _‘Hips that divine deserve to be lit up by the spotlights,’_ I think she told me,” Shiro chuckles and shakes his head. “She kissed me that night, you know? For a moment I felt awful, spluttering, trying to come out to her and let her down easy, until she tossed her head back and laughed, telling me _‘I’ve seen how your eyes follow Curtis’ ass behind the bar. Trust me, this is just a kiss – it’s supposed to be fun.’ ”_

“You kissed Allura?” Lance asks, his eyebrows rising almost to his hairline. “How did you manage that? I tried for the first year I worked here and never got anywhere.”

“Oh, we know,” Shiro grinned, watching the blush rise to Lance’s cheeks. “She used to keep me up to date on your wonderful pick-up lines. I think my favourite was ‘ _are you an alien princess, because you are out of this world.’_ ”

Lance audibly groans and hides his face from view, cringing at his past antics. “No wonder she never fell for me,” He grumbles, and Shiro claps a hand to his back.

“You gave it a good try,” He consoles.

Lance turns his head and looks up at Shiro, narrowing his eyes slightly, “Something tells me you’re telling me this story for a reason.”

Shiro looks sheepish as his motives are exposed. “You got me,” He admits, but concedes the point. “I needed you to know that I can never thank this place and the people within it for everything they have given me. They gave me a chance at a life, and in doing so gave Keith the same opportunity. Coran chose to bet on me, Allura took the time to teach me – I wouldn’t be here without them.”

Lance flinches at the words that are oh so familiar to him, avoiding Shiro’s gaze.

“I would do anything I could to protect this place,” Shiro promises him, his voice serious as he says the words. “Work every day from dawn till dusk, dress in the ugliest of costumes, even go back to waiting tables if that’s what Coran needed from me.”

But Shiro levels his gaze with Lance as he continues, making sure the singer is listening to him, “But, just because this place saved my life does _not_ mean that life is indebted to it. Coran, Allura, they don’t help people just so that they can get something back from them - they help because they _can_. They help because, when they were struggling, they wished someone had helped them in the same way.”

Lance’s mouth is dry as Shiro speaks to him, sharing with him more than he had ever asked for. “If I had the chance to save the club but had to sacrifice Keith, or Adam, or Coran and Allura to do so, I would refuse without a second thought. Yes, this place is special, but that’s because of the people _in_ it, and if the club goes out of business you can bet they'll stick with you. No pile of bricks deserves your future.”

Lance is struck dumb for a minute, unable to speak as he mulls over Shiro’s words. “It’s too late,” He eventually whispers, his words so weak he is surprised to find Shiro heard them at all.

“Why?” He challenges, “Because _Lotor_ says so?”

“Because Keith is leaving,” Lance says, sliding the letter out from under him and skimming the terrifying verse he had just written, a confession so heavy it was going to hang around his neck and drag him down for the rest of eternity.

“But he hasn’t left yet,” Shiro points out. “There’s still time.”

“Not enough,” He says sadly and hands Shiro the letter, letting him read over the words he had written with the intent that no one else would ever see them. “It’s all too messy to be fixed in such a short amount of time.”

Shiro looks like he has tears in his eyes as he finishes the letter, folding it back up and sitting it on the table as his side. “You’re right: there’s not enough time to fix everything at once,” Shiro says. “But there’s enough time to take the first step.”

Lance worries at his lip with his teeth, drawing a bead of blood from the mauled skin. “Lotor would-”

“ _Lotor,”_ Shiro says firmly, “Is part of the grand scheme of mess: focus on the first step, and the rest will fall into place.”

“And what is the first step?” Lance is almost too afraid to ask.

Shiro looks at the piece of paper with heavy eyes, and tells Lance exactly what he expected to be the answer. “You tell Keith how you feel.”

Lance’s hands shake as he takes the paper back and tries to imagine him actually saying these things. “And…” His voice hitches in his throat, “And what if Keith doesn’t want me?”

Shiro wraps an arm around Lance’s shoulders and squeezes him comfortingly. “Just take the first step.”

Lance knows he shouldn’t: he knows how stupidly _stupid_ this is to be even considering. Lotor was waiting for him right _now:_ he shouldn’t be sitting here contemplating Shiro’s words.

But he can’t ignore them: he can’t dismiss the feeling that, despite the swirling chaos that is his life right now, that first step seems so simple. Not an easy step to take, but amidst the anarchy of his mind it stands out as the most sensible path in the storm.

Lance puts the letter down on the table and his chair scrapes as he stands, running fingers under his eyes to wipe at any smudged make-up. He refuses to even glance at the letter again: if he’s to act on his impulses, he didn’t want to have the statement of his embarrassment immortalised in ink in front of him. He would rather speak his idiocy from the heart and hopefully block it from his memory later if it went terribly. “Lotor will know I’m gone,” He says, his mind trying to conjure up an excuse as he changes out of his dress shoes into something more suited to walking down the streets without the clack of heel on stone.

“I’ll cause a distraction,” Shiro promises him with a wink. “I’ve got a few choice words for the Duke, after all.”

“And- and where do you live?” Lance asks, remembering the story of how the scarfweaver couldn’t find the painter and feeling embarrassed that he had only just realised he had no idea where Keith’s apartment was. He ties his laces tight on his shoes, practically cutting the blood circulation to his feet off.

Shiro chuckles and scribbles the address and directions to get there on a piece of scrap paper, passing it down to Lance.

“What if Keith won’t let me in?” Lance questions, staring down at the address held between trembling hands.

“There’s a spare key under the floorboard in front of the door,” Shiro tells him, offering a hand and helping Lance stand. Instantly Lance is engulfed in a bone-crushing hug that rivals those of Hunk, raising his hands to rest against the broad expanse of Shiro’s back.

“One step,” Shiro promises, squeezing tight, “That’s all you have to do.”

Lance nods with determination, steeling himself with a deep breath before bidding Shiro a farewell, practically stomping towards the staff door to make his escape. He throws the door open, the wind whipping past him, and almost has a heart attack as he hears running steps coming up behind him.

He contemplates trying to make a break for it, but instead turns to face whoever it is that’s coming up behind him, breathing a sigh of relief that leaves him light headed as he recognises Shiro coming closer.

“Jeez, Shiro,” Lance breathes, “Your speech already worked: I don’t need anymore convincing.”

It only when Shiro holds his arm out that Lance realises he’s holding onto a jacket. “Sorry,” Shiro tells him. “Keith left it behind – do you mind taking it to him? His keys are in the left pocket, so you don’t need to worry about the spare key.”

“O-okay,” Lance says slowly, taking the dark fabric into his hands and _refusing_ to bring it to his nose to see if it smelled of Keith. “Why can’t you take it?”

Shiro shrugs, maintaining ultimate aloofness. “I figured you would appreciate having an excuse about why you came round to break the ice.”

Lance considers it for a moment before folding the jacket over his arm. “You know, that’s a pretty good idea.”

“I’ve had a few of them in my time,” Shiro smiles.

“Thanks again, Shiro,” Lance says, hugging the jacket to his chest and stepping out into the wind, checking the alley was empty before glancing back at Shiro. “Wish me luck!” He jokes, stepping out so that the door is caught by the wind and slams shut.

Shiro raises a hand in farewell that goes unseen, words unheard as he whispers - _prays -_ “Good luck, Lance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if that was a mess! There were so many scenes I realised I needed to fit in.  
> And I hope it was worth the wait.  
> And I'll see you next week for Chapter 14!!  
> We're getting so close to the end, it's terrifying. 
> 
> (Also holy shit, we hit 100K words and then blew it out of the water!!!!)
> 
> (Also also, I listened to ['Heather'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GPUg7n8-M6o) by Conan Gray on repeat for literal hours for the final couple of scenes in this chapter. I recommend checking it out, it's so gorgeously heart-wrenching)


	14. ...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear Keith...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: blood + graphic content.

_Dear Keith,_

_I’m writing to you right now because Hunk thinks it’s a good idea to get my thoughts out of my head and, well, performing a song about you would just be asking for trouble. Not that I even have a song for you: ever since I told you to leave me alone, the music in my head has been silent. It’s been awful, having nothing to distract me from myself: I’m not sure how anyone puts up with me if this is what it’s like._

_Sorry, I’m probably boring you._

_Anyway, Hunk said I should write you a letter to help me move on. You’ll never get the letter, but apparently that’s the point: these words aren’t for you, they’re for me._

*****

Okay – so what should he do now?

Nerves unlike anything Lance has ever known twist and writhe in his stomach as he stands on the doorstep of what he hopes is Shiro’s (and Keith’s) flat, the key to which is sitting in the centre of his sweaty palm. He looks between the door and the key, hoping one of them could give him the answer for what to do next.

What if it was the wrong door – what if, after all this stress, he summons the courage to knock to only be met with a confused stranger. Or _worse,_ what if he used the key and walked right into said stranger’s home, who would then scream for the police, and Lance would get thrown in handcuffs and probably spend the rest of his life in jail-

Through the thick fog of panic it didn’t occur to him that the key would only be able to unlock one very specific door - there was too much to worry about to consider the logic of the situation.

Or, worse still, what if it _was_ Keith’s flat? What if Keith took one look at him and just told him to straight out leave? Or if he thought someone was breaking in and rushed to defend himself, stabbing Lance with a kitchen knife to protect his home. Five minutes from now, Lance could be lying on the floor bleeding out asking himself _why_ he thought this was a good idea-

But he remembers talking to Shiro – _take the next step –_ and the older man’s soothing words of wisdom calm the tidal wave of stress, lets him remember the reason why he wanted to come here in the first place.

Keith said goodbye, and Lance doesn’t want to accept it.

His hand shakes something awful as he reaches out and curls his fingers into a fist, resting it against the wood of the door silently and willing his body to take the next step, to raise his hand and just knock.

He doesn’t know how long he stands frozen like that before realising he looks ridiculous and lowering his hand back to his side.

His fist is curled around the key in his palm, its jagged edges pressing into his skin and helping him gain some clarity with the pinpricks of pain. Knocking was…knocking was too scary. Knocking allowed Keith to ignore him, or to slam the door in his face: it made Lance give up too much control.

Lance _needed_ to say the words burning his tongue: he couldn’t risk being sent away with his damning silence all because a door slammed in his face.

He has to hold his breath in order to steady his hand enough to insert the key into the lock, breathing out a long sigh of pent up anxiety as it turns easily and unlocks with a faint click: it seems Lance had managed to find the right flat.

Feeling motivated by his ability to follow directions, Lance turns the doorknob and steels himself for his unannounced entrance into Keith’s home, readying himself to say the words he came here to say. He pushes the door open with what confidence he can muster-

And raises a puzzled eyebrow as the door only opens a mere inch before stopping, a soft “ _ooft”_ heard from the other side before the fumbling sound of someone getting to their feet.

There’s a lump in his throat as thin fingers grip the wood of the door to open it further, Keith ducking his face from sight as he mutters, “Sorry Shiro, I didn’t think you would be home so soon-”

Keith is already turning away without even looking at him, seeming determined to escape the company of people. Lance’s tongue feels in knots as he places a hand to the doorframe and urgently says, “Keith!”, his voice cracking as he does so.

He can see the shiver pass down Keith’s spine as he pauses in his steps, peering back at Lance with what looks like fear in his eyes, taking long seconds to come to the conclusion that Lance is a _ctually_ standing in his doorway.

“Lance?” He questions, turning back around and trailing his eyes down the singer’s body for a clue as to why he’s here. He stops at the dinner jacket clutched in Lance’s hand, and he scowls. “You didn’t need to-”

But Lance isn’t listening as he feels as though the floor is shifting beneath his heels like the swell of the ocean. Keith’s red rimmed eyes have caught him off guard, his complexion a splotchy red and lips bitten almost beyond recognition: despite wishing it wasn’t true, Lance realises that Keith has been crying.

He understands then why Keith had hidden his face when he had opened the door, ducking away from the light: if it had been Shiro Keith would have scurried away to his room and kept the secret shame to himself. Instead he had been found out by Lance, who had managed to hit him with a door: had he only managed to take a single step into his home before collapsing to the floor?

“Are you okay?” Lance asks him, taking the opportunity to step inside and firmly shut the door at his back so that he couldn’t so easily be shooed out into the hallway.

“I’m fine,” Keith says gruffly, voice still sounding thick from recent tears. He’s trying to put on a brave face, hoping to hide the effects of crying through sheer willpower. “What are you doing here?”

Lance gestures with the jacket he’s clutching to like a lifeline, feeling sheepish all of a sudden. “You left this-”

“And Shiro could have brought it back,” Keith says with a no-nonsense tone of voice. “Why did _you-?”_

 _“_ Are you _really_ okay?” Lance cuts in, unable to focus on anything other than the fact that Keith – _Keith! –_ had been crying. Keith had seen Lance cry so many times by this point it almost seemed impossible for the tables to have turned, and frankly Lance was so stunned by the show of emotion he didn’t know quite how to handle it. He reached a hand out, his knee-jerk reaction to physically comfort like he would have done with Hunk. “Here-”

Keith flinched violently back and Lance let his hand drop back to his side, feeling embarrassed to have forgotten himself. “Sorry,” He said, bringing an arm across his chest and clinging to his elbow in a half-assed attempt to comfort himself. “I’m sorry-”

“It’s okay,” Keith breathes through his nose. “I just – we should keep our distance.”

Lance nods as Keith tries to subtly wipe any remaining tears from his eyes, only irritating them into a harsher red against his pale skin. Searching for something to say, Lance blurts out, “At least we’re evening out the score a little,” trying desperately to break this awful tension between them.

Keith raises an eyebrow at him, not sure what he’s getting at.

“The crying,” Lance says, feeling guilty as Keith looks ashamed with being found out. “Now we’ve both seen each other cry.”

“I wasn’t crying,” Keith says pathetically, both of them knowing he’s lying but Lance choosing not to call him out for it. “It’s allergies.”

“Oh – well,” Lance says, giving him an encouraging smile, “I guess you’ll need to force feed me blueberries if we’re to even out the score for seeing each other with allergic reactions.”

“Blueberries?” Keith asks with budding humour, his eyebrows raising.

“Terrible things,” Lance grimaces, hamming it up to draw a small giggle from Keith’s mouth. “Make me break out in a rash: all red and itchy, really not an attractive look for me. I’ll show you sometime.”

“That’s not necessary,” Keith says with a small smile. “It’s a shame though: blueberries are my favourite.”

“Ah, fate tis but a cruel mistress,” Lance chuckles, allowing himself to swoon slightly. “Truly a forbidden romance.”

Instead of making Keith laugh as Lance had hoped, the writer instead sobers at the words, his smile falling and settling into a small frown. “Lance,” He sighs, eyes looking beyond exhausted, “What are you doing here?”

“I told you,” Lance said with careful indifference. “To return your jacket-”

“We both know that’s not what I meant,” Keith says cheerlessly. “What do you _want?”_

*****

_What I want to say the most is that I’m sorry: I’m sorry for the horrible words I said to you. That moment plays over and over in my mind and leaves me feeling sick at the stricken look on your face. I can’t get it out of my head: how hurt you looked, how betrayed…_

_I had hoped I could keep you out of my gravitational pull towards disaster, but alas here we are._

_I want you to know that if I had the chance to go back and keep myself from knowing you, I wouldn’t. That’s selfish, I know, but it’s the truth. I’ve been alone for so long, surrounded by people who don’t care for me the way I wished someone else could. In such a short amount of time you changed that for me, and the idea of living the rest of my life without knowing that feeling, even for a moment, saddens me. What is it they say – it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?_

_*****_

“I wanted to say-” Instead of answering the way he had prepared Lance is distracted by something odd in Keith’s flat, subconsciously shying away from the topic as he asks with a surprised voice, “Why is there a hole in your wall?”

Keith follows Lance’s line of sight and spies the dark hole in said wall, rimmed with crumbling plaster from where he had buried his fist in it. His cheeks rise to an embarrassed red, offhandedly saying, “We had a little incident.”

“An incident…” Lance says, puzzling over what could have caused such damage before spying bruised knuckles as Keith drags fingers through his tangled hair. Without thinking Lance is at Keith’s side and cradling his hand gently, assessing the damage, “Keith, you didn’t.”

Keith tries to snatch his hand back but Lance holds firm, at least long enough to check he hasn’t broken anything. There’s a couple of scabbed over cuts across his knuckles, but mostly they’re just splotched with dark purple bruises and - if Keith’s quiet hiss under his breath is anything to go by when Lance prodded the area – tender to the touch. Lance looks at Keith, still clinging to his hand as he quietly asks, “Why?”

“I got frustrated,” Is all Keith says before he successfully manages to remove himself from Lance’s grip, taking a step back to mercifully put some space back between them. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter-”

“Are you going to stop avoiding the topic and tell me why you’re here?” Keith cuts him off, shoving his bruised hand into a pocket to keep it out of sight and out of mind. “I have a lot I need to get done.”

“I wanted to say thank you,” Lance says with a tight voice, that past anxiety rising up to keep a constricting grip on his throat as he tries to speak, grating roughly against the words, “For the song.”

“You’re welcome-” Keith says, thinking this is the end of the conversations and beginning to wave Lance towards the door.

“I’m not done,” Lance bursts, terrified of being cast out so soon and failing to complete a task he knew would haunt him for the rest of his days should he fail. “Please, I just want to talk-”

“You’ve already said so much,” Keith says, thinking back on the rejections and the pleas to respect Lance’s choices. “What else is there left to say?”

“I’m sorry, Keith.” The words feel worthless as he says them, so overused at this point that they’ve lost their original meaning. “I need you to know that I’m sorry for what has happened: you don’t deserve this, and I never wanted to hurt you. I need you to know that.”

Keith waits to see if Lance is going to add anything to this apology, letting the silence stretch between them before saying, “I know you never meant for any of this, Lance. Don’t worry: I’ve already forgiven you.” Keith looks heartbroken as he speaks, like he’s watching the connection between the two of them dissipating, the red tie of fate that had held them together for too brief a moment dissolving to leave them both alone and cast adrift once again. “Now, if that’s all, I have an early start-”

“It’s not all,” Lance says hurriedly, panicked: he’s not ready to go, not yet. “Please Keith – there’s so much I need you to know.”

Keith looks uncertain as he runs a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the tangles that were wound into being as he cried on the floor and gripped the black strands in quivering fists. But Lance is looking at him so earnestly, silently begging to be given a chance, and Keith doesn’t have the strength to turn him away. Not now, when they’re so close to the end. “Okay,” He concedes. “You can sit in my room as I finish packing. But you can’t stay long.”

Lance practically skips after him as Keith leads him to his room, the place bare and barren as though Keith had never lived there at all. Whatever had made this 'home' for Keith had already been removed and packed, leaving the place hollow and soulless.

Lance settles at the top of Keith’s bed, leaning against the headboard and crossing his legs under him. Keith keeps his head down as he focuses on his suitcase, searching his room for remaining items to either be packed or to be discarded, being careful not to meet Lance’s eye and acting as though the singer wasn’t there at all.

Despite the lack of attention Lance knows that Keith will be listening to him: even if this isn’t a traditional conversation set-up, this is very likely his last chance to speak with the writer and he can’t allow himself to squander it.

“I said horrible things to you,” Lance says, flinching at the memory of them. “And, even though I didn’t mean a word of them, they hurt you all the same. But please, you need to know that I was trying to protect you-”

“I know, I know,” Keith says, still stubbornly not looking at him and keeping his hands busy. “Lotor is a dangerous man.”

“No,” Lance says firmly. “Not from Lotor – from _me.”_

Keith remains silent but it’s clear that he’s listening from the way he has paused in his frantic quest to keep himself distracted from Lance, standing dumbly in the middle of his room, his broad back walling him off from Lance..

“I have a particular brand of destruction,” The words are bitter on Lance’s tongue as he echoes Lotor’s condescending tone, “That has hurt a lot of people I care about. I didn’t want it to get you too – I couldn’t let it drag you down, Keith.”

Still silence as Keith keeps his back to Lance, hiding from view just how white his knuckles are as he clings tightly to the shirt in his hands.

“It was safer, keeping you at a distance. I thought I needed to say those awful things to make sure you didn’t get hurt - I didn’t want to ruin your life.” Lance licks at his lips nervously, his breath feeling short as he prepares himself to say what he came all this way for. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but I promise I didn’t mean a word of it. What I said isn’t how I actually feel-”

“What about what you didn’t say?” Keith says with ground teeth, still standing frozen.

Lance’s confession is stopped as Keith speaks, his brain struggling to catch up to what he asked. “What I didn’t-?”

“I could almost believe you, your reasoning for turning me away to protect me: you sound so earnest, I want to give in and accept your words. But if that’s true, why stand by silently when Lotor spread such vile lies about me?”

Lance stutters, unsure what he should say but knowing he needs to offer Keith _something-_

“See, you think you’re doing me a favour right now, telling me that what has happened between us was your choice and not Lotor’s. You want to pretend that you have done the noble thing and _chose_ to cast me aside but, if that was the case, you wouldn’t have let him destroy my chance to keep my life in Paris. If you were the one in control you would have stood up and told the truth – tell everyone that I had never done _any_ of those things to you, that I’m not capable of such evil.”

With wide eyes Lance leans forward on the bed, considering reaching out and taking hold of Keith’s shoulder to make him turn and look at him but hesitating with his hand hovering in the air between them. “Keith-”

“I can accept that this mess was of Lotor’s constructing,” Keith says as he struggles to keep an even voice around the emotion swelling in his chest. “I can accept the heartache and the shame, and I can accept my defeat at being outplayed. But you’re about to hurt me more than anything that bastard could ever throw at me if you’re going to tell me that _all of this_ was your own choice.”

Lance panics as he watches Keith taking his words the wrong way, “No, Keith, that’s not what I-”

“If you didn’t want to ruin my life, you wouldn’t have let the world believe that I hurt you: you wouldn’t have stood back and let everyone believe that I was the bad guy.”

“Keith, just listen to me-”

But Keith was past listening: he had come to understand what Lotor was capable of, and he had come to accept that the Duke was the one in control here. What was too painful to accept was the idea that Lance had had a say in this: that this horrible ending had _anything_ to do with the singer’s freewill.

Lotor holding all the cards was one thing, but the idea of Lance’s willing involvement in further wounding Keith was too much for him to bear.

“Is that what you wanted – for everyone around you to tell you I was the bad guy, repeat it long enough that you could convince yourself it was true? That’s one way to make yourself feel better.”

Lance’s mouth dropped open, jumping to his feet, “No, no of course not!”

Keith turns and it’s like a punch to Lance’s gut when he sees the tears running down his cheeks, so unlike the rough exterior he had come to know as ‘Keith’. He had thought the fading signs of crying had been bad, but seeing it for himself was infinitely worse: he desperately wanted to draw Keith to him and hold him, promise him that that’s not what he meant. But he keeps himself still, something telling him that trying to reach out would only condemn them both to further disaster. Keith blinks owlishly at him and speaks through his tears, almost ignoring their existence as they trace lines down his cheeks and drop onto his shirt. “Then do _not_ tell me that you were protecting me when you watched that happen: do _not_ let him make you think you had anything to do with what he has done to the two of us.”

“Keith-” Lance says weakly, desperate to step forward and wrap Keith in a tight embrace but having enough sense to know what a terrible idea that was. “I just meant-”

“You don’t think enough about what you say,” Keith says, his voice without any malice as he wipes the back of his hand across his eyes, ashamed to have let himself cry in front of someone. “So quick to take the blame: why can’t I just accept your apology and we can bring this to an end? Lotor won, and now we’re both going to start new chapters in our lives and move past this.”

“Because,” Lance pleads, “I can’t leave without telling you the truth-”

“The truth doesn’t matter now-”

“Of course it does!” Lance snaps. “Because you’re lying to yourself if you think I can start this new chapter and find happiness somewhere along the line: I don’t want to go searching for something I’ve already found.”

“There’s no point-”

“There _is_ a point!” Lance scowls at him, getting frustrated at constantly being interrupted. “The point is I care about you – care more about you than anything else I have cared about in my entire life. You’re the only person that makes me feel safe, who makes me feel whole: who makes me feel like I’m a good person and not just a tool for other people’s happiness. You _have_ to know that I never knew that someone who made me feel like this could be real.”

Keith’s scowl is mirroring Lance’s own, and to anyone standing beyond the window you would think the pair of them were about to fight one another rather than trying to discuss their feelings.

“Well, now I know!” Keith practically shouts. He’s trying desperately not to take in Lance’s words, not when he’s leaving never to return in just a few short hours. “So if that’s all-”

“Eurgh – you are so frustrating!” Lance hisses at him. “I’m trying to tell you that I’m not going to choose to give that up, not for one second more. Lotor may be a dangerous guy, but I would rather take the chance on us and an unknown future than accept the hand I’ve been dealt which I _know_ can’t make me happy.”

Keith objectively knows he should be focusing on the implication of Lance’s words, of the risky offer he is asking him to take with him. But instead he can only hear Lotor’s words in his mind, the threat that wasn’t levelled against _him_ :

_He plunges that knife down over and over again…_

_Watches the light fade…_

_He smiles…_

Lance is looking at him with eyes wide with hope and expectation, seemingly moments away from dropping to his knees and begging Keith to say yes to what he is offering.

But Keith knows the true offer: Lance was either to spend the rest of his life in Paris’ prison, or Lotor’s.

He can’t make himself meet Lance’s eyes as decides what to say, giving Lance nothing as he says with a cold voice, “What do you expect me to say?”

_*****_

_~~‘What I’m saying is…it was nice, while it lasted. I’m sorry it couldn’t have been more, you deserve the world and I wish I could have been the one to give it to you. But my mistakes have caught up to me, and I refuse to let them take hold of you too. I promise both of us that this is for the best – you will be better off without me.~~ _

_~~I would have loved to love you.~~ _

_~~Yours sincerely,~~ _

_~~Lance’~~ _

_*****_

Keith half-expected Lance to burst into tears at his cruelly blunt words, or maybe even turn around and storm out of the flat and that would be the end of the pair of them. What he didn’t expect was Lance to stand his ground with a stoicism that Keith didn’t recognise from him, maintaining that stubborn scowl and pushing back against Keith’s words.

“I want you to acknowledge that this was real,” Lance says with a carefully level tone. He’s doing his best to channel his best ‘Keith’ impersonation, except he refuses to lose his temper so easily. “You and me: I expect you to give what I’m asking a c _hance.”_

“We’ve had plenty of chances,” Keith says, crossing his arms over his chest. “When are you going to accept that this just can’t work?” 

“It _can_ work. We just need to try-”

“No, Lance!” Keith doesn’t mean to raise his voice, doesn’t mean to shout, but he does it all the same. Lance looses his calm edge for a moment, eyes widening in shock at Keith’s raised tone and his words fizzling out. “There _is_ no try. There is no you and me – in fact, there never _was_ a you and me. We just let ourselves be stupid, and now its time to wise up. You need to let go of this fantasy.”

Lance refuses to back down to Keith’s defensive tone, recovering himself from his surprise and clinging tightly to his point. “You and I both know that’s a lie,” He says with narrowed eyes, daring Keith to test him.

Keith maintains his deep scowl, “You’re looking at this with rose-tinted glasses. I’m just something you can’t have, therefore you want it. If I said yes right now, we would both live to regret it.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a spoiled, ignorant brat,” Lance says. He holds himself back from reacting to Keith’s almost-aggressive tone as he tries to goad a rise out of him: Keith wants to make Lance snap in anger so he’ll agree that they won’t work, and Lance refuses to give him the satisfaction. Instead he takes a deep breath and sits down on the bed, letting Keith think he has the advantage just because he’s standing above him. “I have been through enough to know the difference between real and fantasy by now. You’re not some shiny trinket to me, Keith: I need you to understand how important you are to me.”

“If we were going to be, we would have been,” Keith says deadpan. “Happiness is supposed to be easy-”

“Can you step beyond that writer brain of yours for one minute?” Lance begs him. “Because, in the _real_ world, you don’t just wait around for happiness to turn up on your doorstep. It’s something you have to take hold of and fight for: _nothing_ comes easy, Keith. That’s why, when something actually good comes along, you make sure you don’t lose it.”

Keith looks unsure of Lance’s words, but instead of blindly hitting back he nibbles at his lip and falls into a stricken silence, terrified of what Lance is implying and the thought that he isn’t strong enough to resist.

Lance looks at him with wide, hopeful eyes, and pleads, “I want you to tell me that I’m not alone in this – promise me that I didn’t imagine it all.”

Keith can’t resist Lance’s plea, his words drawing out the truth despite how Keith wants to keep it for himself. “You didn’t imagine it, Lance.”

Lance perks up at his words, a smile rising in the corners of his mouth at what he hopes Keith is saying-

Keith tries to swallow the lump in his throat. “It was real, but now it’s over. You need to accept that.”

As soon as that smile began to appear it is dashed, Lance’s face falling. “No, Keith, wait-”

But Keith can’t wait: he had already indulged himself too long. It was time to put his foot down and commit to his end of Lotor’s bargain. “I am moving on Lance,” He tells him, holding his gaze even as Lance’s eyes begin to glaze over with tears. “You’re just scared of the future, and you’re fixating on our time together because it felt safe. But you’re looking through rose tinted glasses – we were together for what, 3 days at most? Don’t you see how crazy that is, to give up everything for that brief moment?”

“It’s not crazy,” Lance scowls at him, fisting his hands into the sheets. “If anything, surely it proves just how much I believe in this.”

Keith hates the feeling that he’s looming over Lance and he dips down to his knee in front of Lance. It’s almost funny, how close the position is to that of a proposal when what he has to say has the opposite intention. He indulges himself one moment more and drinks in the sight of Lance’s face, caught on the knife edge between hope and heartbreak and waiting for Keith’s words to push him into one. Keith raises a hand to rest sweetly on Lance’s cheek and Lance presses into the touch, raising his own hand to cover Keith’s as though to keep it there forever more. For a moment Keith is terrified that Lance will lean down and kiss him and he won’t be able to stop himself, but Lance stays rooted in place, holding his breath to wait for the final blow.

“I said goodbye for a reason,” He tells Lance, and hates as he sees that hope begin to ebb away. “Your happy ending isn’t with me Lance – deep down, you know that to be true.”

“What-” Lance’s voice is thick, a heavy layer of tears sitting on his lower eyelid yet no drops fall. “What if it _is_ , Keith? This could be the biggest mistake of all.”

 _‘I know it is,’_ Keith thinks, but he remains resilient and refuses to let the treacherous words past his lips.

He uses his free hand to take Lance’s, their slender fingers winding around each other almost independently of thought. “When you think like that, sing Someone Like You. Remind yourself that our fates are separate from each other save for one, brief moment. Your life is ready and waiting for you, Lance – _I_ was the mistake here.”

Lance shakes his head, closing his eyes against the rising tears and trying to ignore Keith’s words.

Keith clings to his hand tightly, grounding Lance in this moment. This has to be the end for them both: their final seconds. “You once asked me to respect your choices – can’t you do the same for me?”

It’s when the trembling sets in that Keith can’t hold himself back, when he rises and pulls Lance against his chest in a comforting embrace, trying to put a million apologies and explanations into the gesture.

“I-I need you,” Lance whispers between them, low enough that the words remain a secret between the two of them.

Keith sadly shakes his head, his hand cupping the back of Lance’s head and trailing through the short locks just once. “No, you don’t.”

He expects this to be the last time he sees Lance cry, but Lance refuses to let go of the tears in his eyes. He refuses to give in to the pull of the rib-shattering sobs building in his chest, just waiting to break him down into one final mess for Keith to clean up. He refuses to give them this moment, keeps them at bay so he can remember the warm press of Keith holding him close before they break apart all too soon.

Wordlessly the pair walk to the door, Keith opening it and Lance numbly stepping out across the threshold. It’s then that they notice they’re still holding hands, fingers entwined until the last second. 

Their hands fall apart from one another, seeming to go ice cold without the touch of the other and hanging uselessly at their sides. Lance feels his fingers twitch absently, as though searching for their partners that are now beyond reach.

They both stand quietly, neither knowing quite what to say nor wanting it to be over just yet.

It’s Keith that breaks first, looking hopelessly exhausted as he says with dull eyes, “I’ve got an early start tomorrow, so…”

He doesn’t want to close the door in Lance’s face, but Lance is frozen and unmoving in the doorway, searching the endless list in his mind to find the infallible reason that would convince Keith they shouldn’t do this. But he comes up empty, his voice sounding pathetic as he begs, “Keith, _please_ don’t make me go.”

And he can see how much it hurts Keith to stay in place, just voice cracking as he says, “I’m sorry.”

Lance turns before he can see the door close: he doesn’t want to watch it happen. He forces one foot after another to get himself down the stairs and out the building before he crumbles and finally lets the tears fall. He had thought he had them buried deep enough to keep them under control but it feels like Keith had torn him open and exposed every shred of being Lance had once tried to hide away. The tears fall rapidly down his cheek, chilling in the night air and catching on his open mouth as he sobs. He covers his mouth with his hand, trying to stifle himself as he stops in the shadows and lets the tears take him: they were too much to keep dammed, and now they’re engulfing him in a rush that threatens to drown. His feet stop and he leans heavily against stone as sob after sob hits him, his teeth biting down into the soft meat of his hand in a bid to contain himself.

_*****_

_Screw you, Keith._

_Screw you, screw you, screw YOU!!_

_You just had to come back and give me your stupid goodbye, didn’t you?_

_What am I supposed to do now that you’ve wished me the best? Why do you have to go and be the bigger man so that now I just look petty next to the stupid lyrics I added for you. Why do you get to handle this fine and turn your back on me after making me realise that I can’t live without you? You get to go and live your life and I have to live mine with the knowledge that nothing will ever be as good as being with you: there’s nothing for me to look forward to._

_How DARE you!!_

_*****_

He isn’t sure how long he’s there, huddled in the shadows, but it’s long enough that he’s stiff and chilled to the core when he calms down enough to at least be aware of his surroundings again. He feels stupid, having been crying like a child in the street, but the build-up of emotion had been too much. In its absence he’s left feeling exhausted and empty, disconnected and almost able to convince himself that what had happened in Keith’s flat had all just been a vivid dream.

He wished that fantasy could be true, but the crushing disappointment in his chest remains as a constant reminder of the truth.

_  
*****_

_I want to grow old with you, you idiot! I want to be with you, even if it means I die tomorrow: spend the rest of my life with you at my side. I want to make a home with you, and I want you to be there in the audience every night so you can hear me tell everyone that you’re mine. I want a life with you: I want to hug you without having to look over my shoulder, kiss you without feeling fear that we’re doing something wrong._

_I want to be with you for as long as you would have me…_

_*****_

The walk home is difficult with his brain in such an exhausted state. He wishes he could trust his body to take him home through muscle memory, but it seems every time his mind wanders his body takes advantage and changes their destination. More than once Lance comes back to himself to find he’s heading towards the Pont du Carrousel and he has to physically force himself to turn back around, fighting to remain present so he can make sure he makes it home.

It’s with a sense of dread that he turns the corner and sees the looming stature of the Café de L’Altea: when did he stop viewing the place as a home and instead a fortress designed to keep him locked away? Maybe Lotor was right – maybe it was time to move on to pastures anew.

If he had any tears left to cry he would break down in sobs all over again as the door to his building appears ahead, the promise of sleep’s respite from life so close he could almost touch it. His body feels heavy, the air thick as syrup the closer he gets to home, Lance having to force himself to take step after step towards his destination.

The first victory is a battle hard fought as he pushes the door to his building open, eyeing the next leg of his journey that involves several flights of stairs. He’s so close he could almost imagine the scratchy cotton of his sheets on his skin-

He’s so distracted by the thought of home that he doesn’t look down as he steps forwards, the toe of his shoe catching and making him stumble. With a soft ‘ooft’ he lands on his knees, his palms smacking and scraping against the hard floor and his brain needing a moment to catch up to their new position on the floor.

Dully he notes the ache in his hands, his knees, struggling to get back on his feet and not thinking to look at whatever he had tripped over. It’s when his hands lift with the slight resistance of something sticky and warm that Lance gives pause, turning to stare at his red-stained palms with horror in his eyes.

Unable to stop himself he looks down to the leg he had tripped over, sprawling out on the floor with a messy red smear. Bile rises in Lance’s throat as the stench of blood finally hits him, the clothing covering the man’s torso practically _drenched_ in the stuff as the gaping laceration in his neck continues to weakly weep red. His blond hair is tipped in a deep crimson, and his piercing blue eyes are left wide and unseeing.

Lance falls backwards onto his butt as he takes in the state of Rolo, hollow and unmoving, his life having bled out around him onto the stone floor. As Lance crab-crawls backwards away from the horrific scene, his fingers trace over a hand and he squeals, his hand flinching away as though he had been burned. He loses his balance as his hand shoots up and his back hits the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs.

The hand he had touched twitches weakly at his side, not a sign of consciousness but rather the straining final moments of a body attempting to cling to life. His head turns to the side, taking in the perverse sight of a body lying next to his own as though they were simply sharing a bed once more. Her dead eyes lie open as a trail of red traces a line from the corner of her lips and finally he screams as he comes face to face with the pale corpse of the girl he had once thought was his first, and only, love.

Streets away, far enough not to hear the echoes of the haunting scream that bleed into the city, the writer prepares to leave all he has ever known behind him, staring down at the travel papers in his hands. He frowns at the jacket that had been discarded on the bed, taking it and settling it over the back of his chair. He crawls into this bed for the final time, listening to the quiet Parisian night beyond the window and not noticing the soft swish of an envelope falling from a pocket and hitting the floor.

*****

_How dare you make me realise I love you, and then just leave. You shouldn’t be allowed to just turn around and disappear after doing something like that!! So now I’m expected to live the rest of my life knowing this horrible truth and you get to carry on in blissful ignorance? It’s complete and utter horseshit – what am I supposed to **do?** I’m worse than lost: I’m blind and deaf to the world, and you’re leaving me to stumble in the darkness alone._

_Enjoy your new fancy life: kiss my ass._

_Lance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOFT - right? 
> 
> Also, hello!  
> This chapter has no song because nothing could come from this pain for Lance: no song could make him forget this moment where he puts his heart on the line and is turned down.  
> That said, I do love listening to Postmodern Jukebox's ['Stone Cold'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wwDUNLq4308) because it's gorgeous, and the sense of longing it gives me reminds me of Lance and Keith right now.


	15. Who Wants To Live Forever?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who dares to love forever when love must die?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's song can be found [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Ttx0gHKfY8) It's beautiful, it's gorgeous, it's powerful.  
> I'm not going to say much guys, apart from 1) TWs of blood, violence and injury, and 2) please brace yourselves. 
> 
> Also 2 things because I'm an idiot who apparently didn't mention it previously.   
> 1) Pidge is working as a stagehand to help out during the play.   
> 2) 'The Painter' is being played by Thace. I never noticed until now that I hadn't assigned the character and I'm an idiot, but I didn't want to throw in a scene only designed to introduce him now just to have a name put to the performer. So, I'll tell you here.

He hasn’t slept a wink.

Every time he closes his eyes he sees searing streaks of red, unable to escape the sticky memory coating his hands. His stomach turns over and he tastes bile at the back of his tongue, and by then he’s opened his eyes again to stare blankly at his ceiling, watching as the dark of night begins to give way to the break of dawn.

Lance honestly thinks he’s never going to sleep again, not after what he had seen. He had thought that watching the life bleed out of someone at his own hand was the only image with the power to haunt him, but the hollow look on Nyma’s face has burned itself into his memory. Her dull eyes, the blood fanning around her on the floor, leeching into his clothes and pressing, cold and sticky, against his skin…

He hadn’t stopped screaming for a long time, not until he was roughly hauled to his feet by a police officer who was barking questions at him. But he hadn’t managed to say a word in response, feeling locked in the back of his mind and unable to look away from the bodies sprawled across the floor at his feet.

And then Lotor was suddenly there at his side as though having emerged from shadows, taking his arm and firmly telling the officer that was enough: that Lance had nothing to do with this.

And the officer just…believed him, accepted the Duke’s words with a quick nod before trying to clear the gathering crowd of tenants from the stairwell.

Lance was led back to Lotor’s apartment where the Duke cleaned the blood from his skin with harsh scrubs, leaving the skin tender and pink in his wake. Lance stared numbly at the wall, Lotor’s soft spoken words passing by him in a confusing fog that he didn’t care to interact with.

_‘I don’t know why you’re so shocked-’_

_‘They were bad people: they had it coming-’_

_‘You should have come here: then you never would have found them-’_

_‘I love you, you know that don’t you?’_

_‘What I do, I do for you.’_

Lotor had put them to bed and still Lance hadn’t said a word, taking solace in his detachment from reality. In one evening he had made the choice to go after Keith, then got rejected by Keith, then found the brutally murdered bodies of his ex-girlfriend and the man she had cheated on him with. It was too much, too painful to try and sort through, so he let himself hide in the back of his mind and let Lotor move him around like a doll. It was just easier, and a distant part of him considered staying in this hidden place for the rest of his days, keeping himself safe as Lotor finally got the perfect fiancé that wouldn’t cause trouble for him. Everyone wins, right?

But as the sun began to rise, the golden rays growing stronger where they streaked around the curtains, he found himself settling back into the weight of his body. He became acutely aware once more of the effort it took to draw breath into his lungs, the pounding bass of blood being pumped through his limbs, the constraining weight of Lotor’s arm clinging tightly to his waist, the possessive curl of the Duke’s body at his back.

It made breathing more difficult, the weight of Lotor’s existence surrounding him. He wanted to float free and detached once more, but his traitorous mind kept him firmly grounded in this prison of flesh, doomed to wait out the years of his life within its oppressive confines.

He tried to ignore the tensing of Lotor’s arm as he removed it from his waist and slipped from the bed, leaving the Duke’s grasping hand to search blindly for him in his sleep. Lance turned his back and entered the bathroom, the solid thunk of the lock sliding into place giving him a rare sense of security.

He looked awful: more awful than he ever had in his entire life - including the morning after Hunk had first found him singing on the Pont du Carrousel. He was gaunt and lifeless, and the longer he stared the more dead he looked: a dead-man walking, hiding the truth beneath a layer of powder. He noticed then that he had automatically been reaching towards the collection of expensive make-up Lotor kept for him here and, in a violent rush of despair that shredded his chest he lashed out, sweeping his arm and sending all of the petite containers crashing to the ground. Dainty bottles of perfume and cologne smashed, the glass tinkling against tile, powder exploded in a cloud of bronzen dust, caps fell from the tops of lipsticks so that reds and pinks smeared the floor.

The only thing to remain on the sink was that stupid diamond necklace, strewn where Lotor had left it the night before, granting him respite from it to sleep.

Lance was breathing heavily, gripping the sink tight enough for his knuckles to go white. He held his breath during the aftermath and strained his ears for the sound of Lotor coming to check what the ruckus was about, but seemingly he had enough luck that the Duke not to rouse. He felt his knees go weak and he sat heavily over the toilet seat and put his head in his hands, trying to breathe around the heavy, fragranced air trapped in the small space with him.

It felt like the most recent upheavals in his life were just pushing too far: even now, as he tried to build walls of defence around Keith’s rejection and the stink of blood in a stairwell, he felt himself crumbling. He couldn’t build the walls fast enough to overcome the rate at which they were being torn down, the memories refusing to be contained and neatly filed away at the back of his head. And as they broke free his other defences toppled, being hit with wave after wave of repressed pain that he had hidden away to keep himself safe.

Keith’s face as he told him horrible lies. The feeling swelling in his chest as he hung a shaky foot over the writhing depths of the Seine. Nyma turning her back when she was the only thing he lived for. The disgust of becoming a murderer because he was so afraid of losing his worthless life.

He hides his face in his hands as he feels it all come crumbling down around him and he’s assaulted from every side, forced to relive the moments he had desperately tried to forget. He felt himself drowning amidst the noise, the sharp perfumes burning his nose and throat, fingers digging into his scalp where he clung to his hair for dear life-

But amidst the noise comes a bittersweet melody, heard first as a lifeline to bring him back to the real world and a final time as an axe to sever that tie.

_I heard that you’ve settled down…_

The words whisper at the back of his mind, yet manage to cut through the screaming clamour and grab his attention. He clings to the echoing remnants of Keith’s soft voice in his memories, humming the melody as he tried to calm Lance down the day he thought he had ruined his life.

How wrong he had been: the mistakes had came after that, blunder after blunder that lead him down this path. Looking back on it he felt foolish to have missed so many opportunities to set this right, so glaringly obvious in hindsight. But now it was too late and those chances lie out of reach, taunting shades of the past that whisper his failures over and over.

Because he had managed to mess up so badly that Keith had turned him away. Keith, who had watched him with such enchanted eyes. Who had hoped and waited for so long, remaining patient as Lance drifted from misguided decision to misguided decision and who had the good sense to give up before Lance could change his mind once more and try and drag him back into his mess. He couldn’t blame Keith for throwing in the towel, not after what Lance had put him through.

So, what now? Everything had played out between the Duke, the writer and the singer and this was the ending. What was it Keith had said – _‘Lotor won, now we’re both going to start new chapters in our lives’._

He was right, of course: Lotor had clearly come out as the victor here, sending Keith across the seas to keep him from Lance. He had made Keith believe that he and Lance weren’t worth the fight and it was time to let go and move on. He had convinced Lance that a life with him was better than he deserved, and that he should be grateful for what he has.

He slipped off the toilet and dropped to his knees, trying to gather the mess. He didn’t attempt to salvage any of it, instead dumping it straight into the bin without a second glance. He sliced his finger on the broken glass of a smashed bottle but didn’t even flinch as perfume entered the cut and stung painfully, too focused on tidying up so that he could get away from the cloying scent of the spilled fragrances mixing together and stinging his nose.

He stood, clinging to the basin to steady himself as he did so, grimacing at the stench of perfume clinging to his fingers, a single red drop of blood oozing from the cut. He turned the faucet and stuck his hands under the running water, trying to wash the persistent scents from his fingers, the water washing out the cut both a soothing coolness and a new sting to the injury. He watched himself in the mirror and sighed, watching his chest puff out before deflating.

Lotor won, right? Lance had tried to play a game they had no business playing, and he had lost. So this reflection, this bathroom, this man in his bed through the closed doorway, this was the price of such a game.

Lotor had won, and Keith was gone.

But…but when had it become a case of Lotor, or Keith?

Lance frowned as he mulled over the question, not noticing as the water grew scorching hot over his fingers. Because when had he become the prize on the side lines, letting these two men in his life fight over him? Why did he wait for whichever one to win the right to have him at their side, accepting the game’s outcome with little complaint because the loser had rejected him.

Since when did his future need _either_ of them? Why was his choice focused on having _one_ of them instead of neither? So, what – he lost the one he truly cared about and resigned himself to his life as a consolation prize? This wasn’t what he wanted: Lotor couldn’t give him what he needed, and no amount of grinning and bearing it would change that. Why had he given up just because Keith told him no? Because he didn’t want to be alone?

He was his own person, god _damn_ it.

He had struck out on his own once before, when his world had come crashing down and he ended up in a pit of despair. He had a support system of friends who stood by him while he found his way, pulling himself out of that darkness. After Nyma broke his heart he had promised he would keep himself safe and never let someone have that power over him again, yet here he was.

He loved Keith: he had admitted that to himself, and nothing would change it now. But just because Keith wasn’t here didn’t mean that Lance just had to accept the outcome. _Lotor_ was the consolation prize here – not him! – and he didn’t need to accept this life just because it meant being alone.

He was worth more than that.

Keith was gone: Lotor’s power and money had sent him across the seas to England, and in doing so had safely removed Keith from Lotor’s grasp. So, why was Lance still playing along with his organised fantasy? For the club?

But Shiro’s words of wisdom repeat in his mind, loud enough that Lance almost believes if he turns from the mirror he’ll find Shiro standing right there uttering the words over again:

_Just because this place saved my life does **not** mean that life is indebted to it. _

He owed the club so much-

_They don’t help people just so they can get something back from them – they help because they **can**. _

But they didn’t help so that he could repay them someday-

_No pile of bricks deserves your future._

They helped for no other reason than they were good people, raising him up and helping him see that he wasn’t as useless as he first let himself think.

Lance stared himself down in the mirror, and for a second he imagines seeing his friends standing at his back. Allura, Coran, Hunk, Shiro, Pidge – watching, waiting for his decision.

He looks over each of them, and lets himself accept the truth that Shiro had tried to show him:

_It wasn’t the club that helped me – it was the **people.**_

He thinks the words and in an instant he’s alone in the mirror once more, seeing a sparking light in the depths of his eyes that he thought Lotor had managed to completely extinguish.

He looks at that stupid, _stupid_ necklace, and without a moment’s hesitation he’s grabbing it and throwing it into the toilet. With a flush the obnoxious glint of jewels is swallowed by the swirling of toilet water as Lance watches the gaudy collar disappear from view, casting it into the snaking pipes of Paris.

He glances in the mirror one last time and feels the first genuine grin in what feels like an eternity grace his lips. Because he may not know where he’s going, or what he’s doing, or even what kind of person he would emerge from this mess as. But what he _did_ know was that he would never wear that constraining piece of metal ever again, and that was enough for him to be thankful for.

*****

He hasn’t slept a wink.

The entire night he watched the ceiling of his room, counting out a list of things he was going to miss about the city.

Number one on that list? Lance, of course.

And here he sits, on the edge of his bed watching the seconds tick by on his watch and waiting for the inevitable knock on his door that would signify the end of his time here. He runs over his list in his head, repeating it, noticing how Lance’s name appears more than once but unable to convince himself to remove it.

He hasn’t seen the envelope that’s addressed to him yet, lying where it fell beneath the desk.

*****

“Lance, I need you to slow down,” Hunk says gently, fanning what are supposed to be calming hands at him in a frantic manner. “What’s the plan?”

“I don’t know.” Lance hasn’t stopped grinning, not once, since he slipped out of Lotor’s apartment and sprinted across the city, the police cleaning up the previous night’s crime scene only giving him a quizzical look as he storms past them and takes the stairs twice at a time. He hasn’t stopped as he burst into his flat and half scared Hunk to death, his friend shouting after him as he rushed into his room and started shoving clothing into a bag. “I don’t know, Hunk,” He says, and finds himself laughing in exhilaration. “I have no idea – isn’t it wonderful?”

“Is it?” Hunk questions, trying desperately to connect the dots that would lead him to Lance’s current state of thinking but coming up empty. Instead, he settles on attempting to understand why Lance is hastily packing a bag. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere,” Lance gasps, trying to close the bag filled to bursting before half-hazardly tossing whatever items he can reach out to allow him to close it. “It doesn’t matter, Hunk. Can’t you see that?”

“I need you to explain what’s going on, buddy,” Hunk says, trying to remain calm but getting increasingly concerned with Lance’s manic manner.

“I’m my own person, Hunk.” Lance finally allows himself to stop, placing his hands over Hunk’s shoulders and looking into his deep, brown eyes. “Just because I can’t be with Keith doesn’t mean I _have_ to be with Lotor. I can do whatever I want: it’s not up to _him.”_

“That’s great, man,” Hunk says honestly. “But I need you to take a deep breath and think things through with me, at least enough that we can discuss what you’re taking with you. Because, honestly, I don’t think you should be wasting room in your bag on that giant-ass candle you got for your birthday.”

Lance blinks and looks to the bag that looks like it was packed by a crazy person, the bulk of said candle pressing tightly against the bag’s fabric as though trying to escape through the threads to freedom. “That…that might be a good point.”

Hunk leads him to their living room, disappearing to make the pair of them a cup of tea each and settling down next to him. “So, you’re leaving?”

“I think so,” Lance says, mulling over his earlier excitement. “I mean, I can’t stay here, not when I end things with Lotor.”

Hunk nods along with him, not arguing against the proposed plan to leave: with half the city officials in Lotor’s pocket, not to mention some very sinister allies on the streets, Lotor could surely make Lance disappear with as little as a snap of his fingers. “That makes sense: it’s not like you could just make a complaint about him to the police and they would handle it.”

Lance laughs at the mere suggestion, unable to even take the idea of it seriously. “It would take a hell of a lot more than a complaint to get the police to turn on Lotor.”

Hunk finds himself smiling, the joy radiating off of Lance infectious. “So, when do you leave?”

That question gives Lance pause, as though he hadn’t considered just how soon he could disappear and set out. “I’m…not sure. I refuse to just slink away without the chance to tell Lotor exactly why I’m leaving, and I need the chance to say goodbye – but soon, I think. As soon as I can.”

“And what about tonight?” Hunk asks cautiously, blowing across the surface of his steaming tea.

“Tonight-?” Lance asks dumbly before it hits him: the play. “Oh shit.”

“If you don’t turn up, Lotor will know something is going on,” Hunk says. “Can you put this plan to end things on accelerate?”

“Probably…” Lance says with uncertainty, nibbling at his lip. “But I don’t think I want to miss it.”

“What?” Hunk asks, pausing midway through his sip.

“It’s just…” Lance fumbles. Because this shouldn’t be a point of consideration for him when he has so much else to deal with, but he can’t shake it. “It’s not just ‘Keith’s’ play, you know? We’ve all put a part of ourselves into it. If I just abandon it and walk away, I think I would live to regret it: like I had left something unfinished, you know?”

“Okay,” Hunk nods, uncertain if this was a good idea but not shooting it down. “So you want to stay long enough to say goodbye, end things with Lotor and perform the play?”

“Not necessarily in that order,” Lance says with a nervous giggle. “But ideally? Yes. It’s just…I want to leave the right way, and I think that includes doing the play justice, even if it is just one time.”

“If that’s what you want, I’m here for you,” Hunk smiles warmly at him.

Lance mirrors the expression, and while any logical person would tell him doing so was a stupid idea, he counts his lucky stars that his best friend would rather jump aboard the crazy train instead of trying to derail him. “But,” Lance grins devilishly, “We need to make one small change.”

Hunk raises an eyebrow, interest piquing. “Change?”

Lance puts his tea down and gets up to grab papers and pencils, returning to the centre of the room and settling on the floor, grinning up at Hunk. “Keith got to sneak in a secret song last night. I want to do the same: but _mine’s_ going to be in front of Lotor and his crowd.”

“Oh yeah?” Hunk asks, sliding off the couch to join Lance on the floor, reaching across to take pencil and paper for himself, sitting with the pencil poised and prepared for the early morning brainstorming session. “And what is the purpose of this secret song, Monsieur McClain?”

Lance is grinning so wide he feels as though his face may crack, but he can’t seem to find the will to stop. “It is the scarfweaver’s goodbye.”

*****

When the knock finally comes it scares him out of his skin, his heart pounding violently in his chest as he grabs his suitcase and leaves the room, closing the door gently after him and hoping the knock isn’t enough to wake Shiro.

He hasn’t seen the envelope.

Keith answers the door to a familiar face: Zethrid. He raises a questioning eyebrow, the bouncer-turned-bodyguard scowling down at him.

“I am here to escort you to the train station,” She says gruffly, and he nods silently.

She turns and begins to walk away and he takes the doorknob in his hand, taking one last look around the apartment where he had grown into the person he was now. He sighs, dropping his set of keys down on the table at the side: he won’t need them anymore.

“Come on,” Zethrid says impatiently, looking back on him from the end of the hall.

“Right,” He mutters under his breath and pulls the door closed. This is it, he’s about to hear the latch click and that will be the end of calling this space his ‘home’. This is the first step towards whatever lies in wait for him in London.

_He hasn’t seen-!_

“Wait-” His hands stills, millimetres from the lock clicking shut.

“What is it?” Zethrid scowls, stomping back towards him as he pushes the door back open.

“I forgot my jacket,” He tells her, waving at her to wait. “Give me two seconds, it’s in my room.”

Zethrid doesn’t look pleased but she just huffs a breath through her nose and crosses her arms, hating every minute of her babysitting duty.

Keith leaves the suitcase at the door and quietly pads back to his room, seeing his jacket exactly where he left it the night before. He takes the well-worn material and shrugs it across his shoulders, refusing to think of Lance’s hopeful face as he had appeared with it at the door.

He’s about to leave when something catches his eye and gives him pause. A piece of paper, he thinks, though as he bends beneath the desk to reach it he does not recognise the envelope. He turns it over in his hands, and reads the scrawling letters:

_Keith_

A silent question raises in the back of his head, fingers reaching to tear the envelope open but being distracted as he hears an impatient throat being cleared behind him. Zethrid had come after him and she looks unimpressed as she finds him standing dumbly in his room.

“Sorry,” He tells her, stuffing the mysterious envelope into his jacket pocket. “Lets go.”

He hasn’t read the letter.

*****

She walks him quickly and efficiently through the crowds of the train station, certain to deliver him to his platform on time. Keith is struggling to keep up with Zethrid’s long strides, his arms aching from lugging the suitcase this far.

He hasn’t read the letter.

*****

He sits down in one of the few remaining seats he has managed to find, earning displeased scowls as he worms himself between the two passengers who were clearly enjoying the extra space.

Zethrid is watching him from the platform, her steely gaze practically cutting a hole in the window of the compartment as she ensures that he stays put until the train makes its departure.

He hasn’t read the letter.

*****

Allura looked unsurprised as Lance spoke, the five of them holed up in the private dressing room under the guise of final play preparations for this evening. She nodded thoughtfully as he spoke, before drawing him into a tight embrace with her firm arms.

“Just keep yourself safe,” She pleaded into his ear, feeling him nod silently against her before raising his arms and holding her just as tightly.

Pidge, bless her, takes this as all things: raising an unimpressed eyebrow and asking, “It _really_ took you this long to figure it out?” Before grinning and allowing herself to be pulled into a hug, whispering how much she was going to miss Lance in his ear along with a threat of what would happen should he tell anyone else of her true goodbye.

Coran…Coran was not taking Lance’s words well. He had collapsed down onto the couch and hidden his face in his hands, Hunk speaking soothing words at his side. Lance turned to him and knelt in front of him, placing his hands on Coran’s knees.

“You didn’t know, Coran,” Lance said softly. “It’s okay-”

“It most assuredly is _not_ okay,” Coran said behind his hands. “Lance, my boy, I am so sorry I made you-”

“Coran,” Lance refused to hear what he was trying to say. “You didn’t _make_ me do anything. Please – you had nothing to do with Lotor and I, I swear.”

Coran’s hands drop and he looks positively ashamed of himself, his usually bright eyes weighed down with regret. “I am so sorry that I ever made you feel like the club’s problems were yours to solve.”

“You didn’t-”

“I clearly did,” the older man says. He lowers his hands to take Lance’s, the weight of his apology clear in every heavy-set wrinkle in his face. “I thought _I_ was the one putting up with that man to keep you all safe – never in a million years did I suspect what you were giving up for us. I can only thank you for your help, and promise you that we don’t deserve your kindness. We aren’t deserving of this sacrifice, Lance – you are worth so much more. I hope you know that.”

Lance feels the tears well in his eyes at Coran’s soft-spoken words. This man, who had given someone he didn’t know anything about a chance, had been the one to give him this future, kept him on this mortal coil long enough to finally make this decision for himself.

“You were worth every bit of it,” Lance says with a wobbly smile. “I just wish I could have done as much good as I thought I was doing.”

Coran takes him by the shoulder and roughly pulls him into an embrace, somehow more solid yet softer than Allura’s was. “You’ve done more good than you know,” Coran promised him, waving the others over. “Now it’s time for you to take care of yourself.”

Allura wraps her arms around them both, and Pidge struggles to hug around one of them with her shorter arm span, but it doesn’t matter as Hunk’s thick arms easily encircle them all in the biggest bear hug Lance has ever had the honour of being a part of. He laughs, the sounds a little teary from the goodbye. They all relax into the hold, relishing it while it lasts, and all wishing it had never come to this.

*****

The train is stuffy and cramped, and he knows he’s not going to enjoy even a second of this journey. The back of Keith’s neck prickles under Zethrid’s staring from beyond the window, those sharing the compartment with him giving him side-eyed glances of suspicion.

The compartment is too small for them all: despite being one of the most powerful men in Paris, Lotor clearly didn’t spend a penny more than he needed to get rid of Keith. His suitcase sits heavy over his lap, the sides of his thighs pressed flush with his fellow passengers and barely room to shift without banging elbows. The air in here feels close, stuffy, the open window not wide enough to allow any movement in the air, and Keith unbuttons the top of his shirt to try and catch a breath.

They should be leaving any minute now, he thinks. Despite everything, he finds himself somewhat excited to get moving: he’s talked so much about moving on, now it was time to put his money where his mouth was and possibly find some relief.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, earning a scowl from the person at his side, and hears the curious crinkle of paper from his pocket. With difficulty he manages to retrieve the curiously addressed envelope he had almost forgotten about, wondering where it could have come from.

There’s a warning chime that sounds out across the platform, telling all those still remaining on the platform that there are five minutes until the train departs.

He begins to read.

*****

It’s all moving in such a haze: despite wanting to keep hold of these moments, they’re slipping past Lance so fast he can barely commit them to memory before they’re gone. The cheering crowd filling the Café, the thunderous applause as he completes his solo about filling a dreary world with streaks of silken colour, the silent clamouring behind stage as Coran tries to keep the performers organised, prepared to enter the stage or change the backgrounds or the correct times to open or close the curtains. It’s wild, amidst the stressed performers hidden from sight and hearing the composed lines that are perfectly recited from the stage. It was the perfect representation of the Café de L’Altea, the secret chaos hiding behind the carefully composed stage personas, and he feels his heart ache at the idea of losing it.

But he is decided: once he performs his new song Lotor will know that something is going on. As soon as he begins to sing he’s pulling the pin on his old life, throwing himself past the point of no return. Lotor will confront him about the changes, about what his song means, and he will unapologetically tell him. He’s leaving, and there’s nothing that Lotor can hold against him anymore to make him stay. He’s going to be his own person for the first time in as long as he can remember, and his choice is liberating.

“I feel like you really missed the mark on a few of your lines Lance,” A hushed voice says at his back. “Might want to actually focus for our final scenes.”

Lance refuses to let James destroy his upbeat mood, though he can’t stop the eye roll as he turns around. “How about you focus on yourself James, and I’ll focus on me?”

James is standing there with his hands on his hips, fully kitted in the Prince’s obnoxiously regal costume, complete with sweeping red cape at his back. Lance wishes it was Shiro standing in front of him instead of Lotor’s new lapdog, but he remains polite and puts up with the arrogant performer, focusing on the fact that he just has to get through this one performance with him.

“You’re really not living up to the hype,” James smirks. “Honestly, I don’t know what Lotor sees in you.”

“Me either, buddy,” Lance chuckles without humour. “Probably got something to do with me not being a kiss-ass. Well, metaphorically anyway,” He says with a wink.

James latches on to Lance’s teasing, riling himself far too easily as he blusters, “You don’t deserve him.”

And Lance just grins at him unwaveringly, “You’re right – I don’t.”

James clearly wants to continue trying to get a rise out of Lance, but Coran is signalling at them as he tries to catch Lance’s attention, motioning towards the stage because – woops – it’s almost time for Lance’s next scene.

“I better run, partner,” He salutes a farewell in goodbye. “Try to open your mouth a bit wider and really enunciate your lines – the audience will appreciate being able to understand what you’re saying.”

And he just walks away at that, leaving James’ frustrated blustering at his back and taking a deep breath before stepping out onto the stage with a flourish of music.

The scarfweaver has combed the streets of the town, desperately searching for his beloved only to find that he has disappeared, leaving him behind. Lance lets the heartbreak well up and take his face, distorting his expression as he begs the painter to reveal himself to him. But alas, no response.

And so the scarfweaver returns to his room in the Prince’s castle and pledges to forget the painter and the hurt he has caused him, Lance finding himself frustrated with the character’s naivety now that he knows better. But he delivers his lines and crosses the stage in a flurry of wedding planning, ending up atop a pedestal as he is fitted with what is to be his wedding gown. This is it, the moments ramping up to the final scene. He knows that behind the painted backdrop of a bedroom lies streamers and a cheering crowd and being showered with flower petals as he and the Prince stand before a priest and repeat their wedding vows to one another. He sees Shams’ disappointing future laid before him, and each disappointing step he needs to take to reach the end.

And Lance will walk those steps for him, but he won’t follow their example.

One final act of rebellion before the end – one attempt to try and salvage the character Keith created so that he’s not just a vapid trinket the Prince paid handsomely for.

While Lance hated the farce of a wedding that Lotor had forced into the show, he had to give credit where credit was due to his final costume of the evening. The wedding gown was a piece of art: close-fitting white satin that hugged his body, fitting him like a glove so that he felt comfortable despite the strapless neckline that would otherwise be a slip-risk. There was light beading across the fabric, delicately tracing out patterns across the corset and the edges of the dress where it fell loosely around his legs. It was supposed to keep his chest clear so that Lotor’s necklace could be on full display in these final moments, but instead Lance’s neck was barren and free in the stage’s spotlight, looking proudly out to his audience and feeling a sense of freedom he once thought lost.

Atop his head sits a crown to prep the scarfweaver to be indoctrined into the royal family: two chains of gold across his forehead leading back to delicate wings of filigree that fan out from his head, glinting in the stage lights and drawing the eye to his face as he lets his expression fall into one of deep sorrow instead of the scripted excitement at the upcoming nuptials.

He had originally thought the crown to be another tacky symbol of ownership but now, standing before an audience he held command over, the crown keeping their gaze directed to him, he felt powerful. He didn’t feel like the pretty face at the Prince’s side: he felt like a ruler, a leader. A powerful individual who would bow to no man, who stands firm in the face of this judging crowd and refuses to back down.

The new mindset makes it easier to remain still as his servants exit the stage, staying in the middle instead of following them off to lead the show into the final act. Instead of feeling like he’s messing up his lines he feels empowered as the light remains on him, Pidge having taken care of the lighting changes with a couple well placed bribes in the form of whiskey Lotor had personally bought for his guests.

The room holds its breath, Lotor the only attendee with the knowledge that this isn’t a scripted scene but not exactly able to speak out and call a stop to Lance. He fumes in his chair as he watches his fiancé, glaring at him as he silently dares him to go through with whatever he has planned.

But Lance will not be stopped: the Duke had turned his character into a pretty-face with no fight, no passion to stand up for what he wants, who lets others make their decisions and waits to see where he falls in their ideal worlds. Shams may be going through with a sham of a wedding, but he wanted the audience to know how he truly felt before he did so. He wanted the world to know of his sorrow at losing the painter: he wanted them to hear him say his final goodbye.

He lets himself look at Lotor in the hall’s silence, long and hard, holding his gaze and making sure he’s watching as he opens his mouth and sings his defiance.

‘ _There’s no time for us,_

_There’s no place for us.’_

Hunk and the band keep silent at the beginning, letting his voice stand alone, nothing to distract from his words. Lotor looks like he’s ready to pop a blood vessel as he stews in his chair and sends silent threats of violence through their eye contact but Lance does not waver:

_‘What is this thing that builds our dreams,_

_Yet, slips away from us?’_

The tinkling of Hunk’s keys begins to trickle in beneath his words, the band building slowly beneath his sure voice:

_‘Who wants to live forever?’_

As he sings, he can see it all: he can see how the audience are falling beneath the sorrowful words of his farewell, the crinkle in their brows as they realise that this character is more than just a plot device: he has his own feelings, and he has lost so much, and doesn’t even know the true fate of the man he loves.

He can see the flustered figures at the edge of his vision, waiting in the wings of the stage out of view. James is gesturing silently, trying to get someone to do _something,_ but if there’s one thing performers know it is if the stage isn’t actively burning to ruin then they should just roll with any changes that may arise: after all, the show must go on.

_‘There’s no chance for us,_

_It’s all decided for us._

_This world has only one_

_Sweet moment set aside for us.’_

And while that’s all they had, they should be grateful they had gotten that at all. That was Lance’s true mistake: becoming greedy and demanding more instead of enjoying what he had in the moment. If he and Keith were only destined to spend a single bittersweet moment together, then that could be enough for him.

_‘Who wants to live forever?_

_Who wants to live forever?_

_Who?’_

And this is the moment where the band begins to truly build, Sven’s beautiful violin melody filling the quiet in absence of Lance’s voice as he lets them amp up before asking:

_‘Who dares to live forever,_

_When love must die?_

He can’t help it as his eyes flutter shut and lets his head fall back as he finally lets himself begin to let loose and relish in the music they have created. If this is to be his final performance he will give it everything he’s got, sing until his voice breaks and cracks, until he’s reduced to nothing more than whisper. To this place that had given him so much over the years, this is his thank you: his attempt to shake the rafters with the vibrato of his voice and the thunderous applause of his audience.

He stands stoic and firm in the atmosphere he has created, every eye fixated on him as he stands centre stage in the blazing light of his wedding gown that can’t fool anyone: this is not a joyous occasion. It is morose, and it is a great loss, and it is not something to be celebrated. Despite its colour, the decadent dress seems better suited to a funeral.

The music grows and he readies himself to return to his melody that’s waiting to burst from his chest, his heart thundering as he raises his arms out to the crowd and opens his mouth.

“But to-”

There are subdued shrieks from the crowd as Lance’s words are drowned out by a great calamity at his back, a fear-inducing sound of wood and metal crashing down to the stage floor, a rush of air passing over him. He turns, both his and his audience’s attention captured by the unexpected ruckus.

The huge painted canvas that had been hung to resemble his bedroom has come crashing to the ground, showing the painted backdrop of the wedding gazebo overlooking a sparkling ocean behind it. But there’s no crowd of cheering onlookers, no priest, no Prince looking at him with satisfaction on his face.

Instead of the glamorous and ostentatious wedding of the Prince and the Scarfweaver, there only lies a lone figure sitting confused in the centre of the stage, wide eyes looking around and taking in the sheer number of people watching his play from the crowd.

Lance’s eyes widen as he takes in Keith’s dishevelled form, appearing as if by magic from the woodwork of the theatre and staring at him with doe eyes that are screaming ‘ _mistake, mistake!’_

*****

He reads.

And he reads it again.

And, for good measure, he reads it once more.

Because these words, they can’t be true. These raw confessions, they can’t truly be written on the page in front of him, ink smeared in certain places from fallen tear drops.

He very nearly asks the man at his side to recite the letter back to him, just to be sure.

Keith hadn’t let himself believe, hadn’t allowed himself to hope that Lance’s words the night before could have had any truth to them. Yet here they lie in unwavering ink, except they’re more raw, saying a lot more than Lance let himself say last night.

He rereads that final paragraph over and over, unable to tear his eyes away:

_How dare you make me realise I love you?_

_-make me realise I love you?_

_-I love you…_

He can’t breathe as he tries to process the words and their truth, tries to understand the same truth rising energised and angry in his chest, furious at being denied for so long.

It’s not until he hears an echoing chime that he comes back to himself: the final warning for the train. Already they can feel the building vibration in the train cars as the engine is stoked and begins to pull forwards.

He stands up hastily, his suitcase falling from his lap and landing on someone’s foot. The carriage is too small, pressing in on him from all sides as he’s struck with one rabid thought: he has to get off.

People swear and shout as he falls towards the train door, fumbling with the latch to open it out onto the platform. He just needs to step-

Keith yelps as a viciously firm hand grabs him by the wrist and wrenches his hand from the door. Zethrid, face a red, thunderous rage, holds tightly to him and fights to get him back inside the carriage even as it begins to move.

“Oh, no you don’t,” She grunts, her strength trumping his as she easily pushes him back into the carriage.

“Let me go-” He shouts, trying and failing to twist free of her grasp.

“You’re staying on this train,” She hisses, stepping from the platform into the already-crowded carriage, “Even if I have to keep you here myself.”

Already the other passengers are grumbling and shouting for them both to sit down, one reaching to close and lock the train door before they pick up any more speed.

“Let go, Zethrid!” He shouts, crying out as her grip tightens.

One of the passengers stands up and shouts at them, “Sit the hell down, both of you!”

But Keith is frantic: he has to get off this train, by any means necessary. He’s clawing and pulling against Zethrid’s grip, trying to seize any weakness in her grasp as she towers over him and threatens him with a fist.

With the threat of her fist the same passenger takes hold of her arm and hangs on for dear life, screaming, “What the hell are you doing-?”

Some of their fellow passengers begin to scream, others leap forward and take hold of Zethrid, trying to pull her back from the struggling man in her grasp. She bellows as they push her back with their combined strength, losing her grip on Keith for a moment.

And a moment is all he needs: he worms his hand out of her grasp and falls back against the other end of the carriage with his momentum, breathing heavily. He looks around with wide eyes, looking over the terrified fellow passengers and those fighting to keep Zethrid at bay, before he notices the latch on the ‘wall’ he’s leaning against.

The carriages have doors at either side.

Without letting himself consider for a moment what he’s doing, Keith takes hold of the latch and unlocks it, his weight against the door enough for it to fly open and allow him to topple backwards.

He falls from the train that is steadily beginning to speed up and lands heavily on his back, knocking the breath from his lungs and thanking god he didn’t land over a train track and break his spine. The door he fell from flaps uselessly as someone grabs it, Zethrid’s furious screaming cut off as the door swings closed and locks once more.

He indulges lying amidst the train tracks for just a minute while he catches his breath before coming to terms with just how dangerous his current predicament is. He stiffly rolls to his feet and stands, holding his side where he suspects he has a couple of broken ribs but, other than that, seeming no more worse for the wear.

The train is disappearing from sight, building to a speed that even if Zethrid broke free now he doubted she would risk jumping from just to come after him. But, not one for tempting fate, Keith turns around and begins to hobble back to the platform, earning confused looks from those who had been seeing their loved ones off, one kind man stepping forward to offer him an arm and help him back onto the platform.

“Are you okay, young man?” He asks, looking around for help. “Should I get the police-?”

“No need,” Keith waves at him quickly, shuddering at the thought of police showing up. “I’m fine – thank you for your help.”

The kind Samaritan clearly wants to convince Keith to seek help but Keith has already gotten to his feet and is determinedly walking away from the platform, returning to the main street and looking around for what to do next.

He has lost pretty much all of his belongings, now lying on the floor of a train carriage along with one of Lotor’s more aggressive minions. Currently, all Keith has in his pockets are a measly few francs and the letter Lance had written and never intended to share with him. He briefly let himself wonder why the singer would secretly give it to him, but quickly pushes the train of thought to the side: now was not the time.

He begins to walk: it’s slow going as each step causes another painful jolt through his cracked ribs, but he breathes through the pain and keeps moving forward, each step leading him closer to Lance.

This was stupid.

He was being stupid, right?

Too bad.

*****

Shiro was more suspicious than surprised to answer the knocking at his door to find Keith standing there cradling his side.

“Do I want to know?” He tentatively asks as Keith storms past him and gratefully collapses onto the couch.

“Got in a fight – fell out a train,” he said breathlessly, letting himself briefly succumb to the pain in side and groaning loudly, leaning his head back against the couch.

“So, no.” Shiro answers his own question with a nod of his head.

“Why do broken ribs always _suck?”_ Keith grumbles, half to himself and half to Shiro.

Shiro crosses his arms over his chest, cocking his head. “I take it Lotor doesn’t know about your little detour?”

Keith gives him a weak smirk, “You think I would be here right now if he did?”

Shiro shrugs, “Fair enough. Come on, I’ll bind your ribs.”

Keith raises an impressed eyebrow, “We have bandages now?”

“Nope,” Shiro says, hauling him to his feet with a displeased hiss through clenched teeth. “Guess we’ll need to go old school and tear up our clothes.”

“ _Your_ clothes,” Keith sheepishly amends. “I sort of left mine…on the train.”

“The train where you got into a fight,” Shiro checked, “And subsequently proceeded to fall out of?”

“You got it,” Keith grimaces, removing his shirt and waiting for the pain of Shiro binding his chest.

“So what changed?” Shiro asks, beginning to tear his clothes into strips he can use. “And why did it have to involve you jumping out a train?”

Keith pulled his jacket into his lap and removed the envelope, holding it out to Shiro to sate his curiosity. “I found this.”

Only Shiro barely glances long enough at the paper to identify what it is before returning to the task at hand. “Ah good, I hoped you might.”

Keith’s mouth dropped open. “Y-you know what this is?”

“ _Know_ what it is? I’m the one that put it in your pocket.”

“What?! Keith shrieked, his voice croaking out towards the end from the pain.

“I figured you deserved to know what Lance wanted to say to you,” Shiro says easily, “In the possible event that he failed to articulate himself. From your reaction, I’ll bet that he did just that.”

“Lance didn’t want me to see this,” Keith says, looking down at the letter with concern. Could it mean that these words weren’t as real as he thought they were -?

“Don’t be stupid,” Shiro says, cutting off Keith’s downward spiral by beginning to bind his chest and giving him something else to think about. “Lance was just scared: did _you_ tell _him_ the truth?”

Keith stutters a failed answer, and Shiro nods his head. “See? You two needed all the help you could get.”

Keith grumbles under his breath, clenching his jaw whenever Shiro pulls against a particularly tender part of chest.

“So, _now_ what’s the plan?” Shiro asked him, needing the latest update.

“Talk to Lance,” Keith says with clenched teeth, “Say I’m sorry and I'm stupid.”

“Maybe say those two in reverse order?” Shiro suggests with a snicker, earning a weak slap to the back of his head.

“Either way,” Keith grumbles. “Fancy helping me sneak into the club again? With the play going on, I can at least know where Lotor is and can avoid him.”

“Sneak in during the premier of the play, avoiding the man funding it all to find one of the main stars?”

Keith shrugs as though it’ll be no big deal. “Well…yeah?”

Shiro sighs before allowing a small smile to raise. “Well I haven’t got a better idea – though this time, I think we’ll try the front door.”

*****

  
Small things that Keith is grateful for? That Lotor had send Shiro tickets for he and Adam to attend the premier: granted, it was a spiteful move designed to humiliate Shiro even further, but they weren’t going to look that particular gift horse in the mouth.

They stood in the waning end of the line, only a few groups of ticket holders behind them waiting to gain entry. Shiro and Adam stood with their backs to Keith, shielding him from sight as his body language suggested he was actually with the group behind them. As they approached the door Shiro made a song and dance talking to the bouncer, Ezor, who honestly looked a little lost and was clearly covering for Zethrid’s no show.

“Ezor!” Shiro called, really hamming it up and stepping in close, Adam following in close pursuit. “What are you doing out here – I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages!”

Always the bubbly personality, Ezor melted into Shiro’s touch and began chatting with him and Adam easily, ignoring the impatient glare from the waiting ticketholders. As Ezor was distracted Keith detached himself from the queue and slipped behind Ezor, moving quickly through the front doors and into the club.

It was a surreal experience, finally managing to get through these front doors after Lotor had done everything he could to deny him.

He melted into the crowd, keeping his head low and face out of sight. Once they entered he returned to Shiro and Adam's sides, speaking under his breath. “That went better than expected.”

“Don’t speak too soon,” Adam warned, looking around them nervously. “We’re only in the lobby – we’ve still got a long way to go.”

“Not that far,” Keith argues. “I just need to get into the hall and I’ll walk down and through the stage door: simple-”

“And you think it’ll be that easy,” Shiro asks, “When everyone is in their seats waiting for the show to start and you’re the only one moving around? You _do_ know Lotor is in the front row, right?”

Keith huffed, not enjoying extra complications being mixed into his plan. “Well, what do you suggest?”

“You’ll need to wait for the intermission,” Shiro says. “Everyone will be up and moving around, headed to the bar. There will be movement to hide behind, and you should be able to get to the stage door unnoticed. _If_ you’re as sneaky as you think you are,” He goads.

Keith bites and he scowls at Shiro’s logical plan. “Fine, Mr Idea Man. And what do I do until the intermission? In case you forgot, I don’t have a seat.”

“I think your best bet is probably to hide in the bathroom,” Adam tells him with a smirk and Keith’s scowl deepens.

“Come on – no way I can just sit around in a stall waiting for the sound of the Act 1 finale.”

“I don’t think you have a choice,” Shiro says, lowering his voice as a waitress he recognises passes close to them with a tray of drinks. “And I think you should get going while you can.”

Keith plays it up for a minute more, huffing a, “fine,” With a roll of his eyes. But as he turns to step away he stops and turns back, a nervous look on his face. “Thank you,” He says earnestly, feeling guilty for the apparent surprise on Adam’s face at the appearance of such manners. “Seriously, thank you both.”

“Don’t thank us,” Shiro says, taking Adam’s hand in his and the two sharing a soft look. “Just do what you came here to do, okay?”

Keith nods, before turning and making his way through the ticketholders still to take their seats, ducking and weaving until he successfully makes it to the door of the bathroom and slipping inside.

*****

Something they don’t advertise?

The acoustics from the bathroom aren’t half-bad.

Keith sits over a toilet and bounces his legs nervously, waiting impatiently for the moment he would emerge and finally see Lance, listening to the music and script he had worked so hard on. Granted he couldn’t make out any of the actual words, but the emotional intent was there and that kept him in the know.

So, when he heard the Prince’s sung proposal, Keith knew he needed to be prepared to move, making his way to the door and standing at the entrance to the hall. He walked into the hall’s designed darkness, the only light coming from the spotlights on the stage, and despite the importance of the situation he still freezes as soon as he sees Lance on the stage, clad in beautifully bright scarves at his waist and watching the twisted expression change to resignation as he ultimately accepts the proposal.

The curtains close and the room erupts into applause, and Keith comes back to himself, clearly weak to Lance’s draw even now. He watches as tables of ticketholders stand and begin to make their way towards him, towards the bar.

He presses into the darkness at the edges of the room as the main lights brighten to allow attendees to see where they’re going. Despite the aching eternity it seemed to take, Keith has to admit Shiro was right to suggest waiting for the intermission to do this: after so long staring at the stage the audience’s attention is scattered, chatting excitedly amongst friends or rushing to the bathroom or bar. It’s almost too easy, walking down to the stage door and pulling it open.

His heart leaps into his mouth as the door is closing after him and for a split-second he thinks Lotor sees him, but then the door slams shut and no shout to ‘seize him’ follows, so he assumes he’s gotten away with it.

Now he was faced with an all new challenge.

Stagehands run back and forth behind the closed curtain, setting up for the next act, but there are no performers in sight: they all must be back in the dressing room, making sure they still look presentable.

Keith keeps to the shadows as he considers his next course of action: he needed to find a way to get Lance alone, yet the performer would surely be constantly surrounded by a cluster of colleagues, so how was Keith supposed to get to him?

He doesn’t have long to think before the stage door opens with a loud bang, and two men dressed in expensive suits saunter backstage as though they own the place. Without so much as a second glance Keith knows that they’re friends of Lotor, and he had one guess as to what they were looking for.

A lump in his throat he ducks down behind a piece of scenery that had been cast to the side after Act 1, watching the pair carefully as they begin to make their way across the stage and ask the stagehands if they had seen anything suspicious. He feels pinned, precariously hidden but the risk to move too high. He couldn’t do anything from behind this – what was it, a fake bush? – and he wasn’t coming all this way to fail now: he couldn’t let them catch him.

Once their backs were turned at the opposite end of the stage he moved, head down and darting forward to make it into the twisting maze of corridors that he had somewhat come to understand in his time here.

He hears a shout and his heart falls as he realises that he hadn’t quite escaped without being spotted. But he has a head start and he takes advantage of it as he tears down the hallway, not having a destination in mind but doing his best to keep them from getting any closer.

Every breath is a hissing pain in his chest, and he thinks he needs somewhere to hide just as he comes across the guest dressing room, slipping inside quickly and making the quick decision to jump into the wardrobe and close the doors after him.

It’s a terribly obvious hiding place, he admits. But he just needs somewhere to catch his breath before returning to his plan to find Lance.

He isn’t sure how long he stays there, a Schrodinger’s-anxiety in his chest of both being found and not found. Any minute Lotor’s goons could burst through the door, and every second the nervous lump in his throat gets larger and larger.

But they do not come bursting through the door, and Keith feels the time to act slipping away from him. He doesn’t want to miss this chance – how long could he reasonably hide here for?

Maybe they thought he had left, thwarted and too scared to approach them?

He cracks the wardrobe doors open with a hellish squeak of hinges, flinching against the noise but finding the room beyond empty. The same goes for the hallway beyond the dressing room, the club’s maze deserted as soon as Act 2 had kicked off. Counting his lucky stars and refusing to waste another second Keith takes off back in the direction of the stage, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was following.

It wasn’t what could have been behind him that should have worried him-

He turns a corner, spying the final corridor that would return him to backstage, when Lotor’s goons appear from nowhere and take hold of his arms, wrenching them behind his back.

He swears under his breath as one chuckles in his ear. “Well well – looks like we’ve caught ourselves a rat.”

“Come on, Sendak,” The other says, looking around them. “Let’s get him out of here before anyone comes along and asks questions.”

“Get off of me!” Keith growls and pulls against them, ignoring the pang in his cracked ribs. This was the second time today he had been grabbed, and he did not care for it.

They both began to laugh at his pathetic display, only pausing as an unexpected voice said, “I think you boys should listen to him.”

Keith looks over his shoulder in surprise to find Coran standing in the middle of the hallway, a displeased look on his face and his moustache twitching in irritation.

“I’d stay out of this if I were you,” Sendak warned. “You don’t want to get on Lotor’s bad side, do you?”

Coran steps towards them with a menacing confidence that Keith had never before seen from the man. “I think I do,” he tells them, both of them straightening up in surprise. “So I would recommend you both stay away from _my_ bad side and let my playwright go.”

Sendak’s head tips back to start a laugh he never manages, Coran suddenly darting forward and hitting the man in the neck, his eyes bulging wide and pathetic choking noises coming from his throat. His grip on Keith faulters as he reaches towards his neck, trying to take in a decent breath. Taking advantage of the other goon’s surprise, Keith slips out of his hold and turns on his heel, punching the man square in the nose with as much force as he can muster.

The man stumbles back, clinging to his bleeding nose and crashing into Sendak. Keith turns to Coran, wanting to question the man’s fighting capabilities, but Coran shakes his head. “No time – I’ll keep an eye on these two. Do whatever you’re here to do.”

Surprised but nodding his thanks, Keith does just that as Coran keeps an eye on their ‘friends’ behind him.

Backstage is almost as bad as the dressing room, only this chaos is silent as everyone moves around behind the scenes so as not to distract from the main stage. Keith can hear dialogue he didn’t write from behind the backdrops set up, and suspects they’re nearing the end of the show.

Now that he was here, he wasn’t sure what to do next, but he didn’t get the chance to decide as multiple sets of eyes turned to see him, many of the performers gasping and raising a hand to their open mouths.

Keith felt small beneath their scrutiny, looking through their faces for Lance before recognising his voice from the stage. Which meant, instead of finding Lance, he had managed to find the entire company of the play he had written.

And they all looked very much brainwashed by Lotor’s rumours.

As they stand watching him in stunned silence, James steps forward in a gaudy costume and starts charging towards him, ready to take him down and get rid of him before he can destroy the show. Keith squares up to meet him head on, trying to prepare for the number this would do on his ribs, but he needn’t have worried as, right before his eyes, he sees Allura dart out and tackle James. She drags the singer to the ground with a crash, wrapping her arms around his chest to keep him pinned and hissing, _‘Go!’_ at Keith.

He does as he’s told, running from where the pair struggle on the ground and trying to work out where to go to wait out Lance’s performance so he can grab him in the aftermath. This situation was getting messier by the minute and he wasn’t sure what he was even doing anymore, his body moving on impulse and leading him to the edge of the stage, head darting side to side looking for an idea.

James manages to get a lucky punch to Allura’s gut, winding her and leaving her gasping on the ground as he stumbles to his feet and takes off after Keith. Panicking Keith runs forwards, terrifyingly close to the stage now as tiptoes between two of the backdrops and searches for somewhere to hide.

“Stop,” James orders him and Keith glances back. The performer looks uncomfortable standing on the fringes, not wanting to dare step out between the backdrops and risk being found. “Give this up,” He hisses, his voice low enough that only he and Keith can hear beneath the stage’s music. “You’re done, Kogane.”

Keith stumbles over his own feet and lands on his ass on the hard floor, the breath bursting out of his aching chest as he crawls back from James to try and put distance between them. Not yet, not yet, this couldn’t be over-

Growing confident James takes a step towards him and seems to accept that the world wasn’t going to end by doing so. Grinning maliciously he begins to move with intent, arms outstretched as he leaves the wings of the stage.

It’s then that Keith notices movement in the rafters, a face grinning down at him as suddenly something drops like a bag of sand. Correction – it _was_ a bag of sand, falling from where Pidge had untied it high above to fall through the air and crash into James’ back, knocking him to the ground and momentarily pinning him in place.

Keith smiled up at Pidge in a silent thank you, meeting her eye and seeing the shock as lengths of rope pulled free without their counterweight. She mouthed a silent curse word as one of the backdrops came loose and crashed into the stage floor, missing crushing Keith by a mere inch. He breathed heavily, eyes wide and taking a minute before noticing just how bright the world suddenly was, how quiet.

He met Lance’s eye, and felt the weight of the audience’s eyes on him for the first time.

*****

Lance was…speechless.

Keith was speechless.

The entire hall was _speechless._

No one moved a muscle, unsure what to think, to do. Expect for those outwith the spotlight, crowding the wings of the stage and silently deliberating whether this was enough to stop the show. Lance saw James struggling to stand with a sandbag lying over him, a murderous glare in his eyes as he looked at Keith.

Keith looked like he was at a loss: he had done all of this to get to Lance. Now that he had managed that, he wasn’t sure what came next.

But the performers at the stage’s edges were starting to come forwards, ready to seize Keith and stop the show. Lance saw the rage in Lotor’s eyes from _here,_ the Duke seemingly ready to rise from his chair and put a stop to all of this. Whatever was going on, he could _not_ have Lotor come any closer.

With frantic hand movements he gestures to Hunk to pick up from where he trailed off, his friend taking a long second to realise what Lance was after before scrambling the musicians to do so, each of them coming in at different points but managing to pick up the tune.

As the music begins those beginning to descend from the edges pause, looking to each other for an idea of what to do. One rule still remained: the show must go on.

And Lance returned to his lyrics, turning back to his audience with a strained voice as he tried to whip them back up into the theatre’s atmosphere once more.

_‘But touch my tears with your lips,’_

He thinks his voice sounds a bit shaky but he pushes on through, waving at Keith to tell him to stand up instead of just lying on the ground. He reaches back blindly and grabs at the writer’s hand, bringing him to stand beside him so he can look into his eyes and pretend that this was all part of the show. Keith looked somewhat like Thace who was playing the painter – he could _definitely_ pretend that this was just part of the play.

_‘Touch my world with your fingertips.’_

And, despite this latest disaster and confusion in his life, he looked into Keith’s dark eyes and he smiled, grateful to be lucky enough to see him again as he sang to him.

_‘And we can have forever,_

_And we can **love** forever.’_

He forces the emphasis of that word that he had been too afraid to say out loud: who cared if it was on a stage in front of an audience that must be beyond confused at this moment in time? He should have said it long before now, and he wanted Keith to know these lyrics were for him.

Keith is mystified as Lance sings, staring deep into his eyes and seeming to forget himself as Lance’s words wash over him. He holds tightly to his hands, almost shaking with the force of his grip.

_‘Forever is our today-’_

“STOP THIS – STOP THIS, _NOW_!”

Lotor’s voice shrieks out above the music and echoes with the acoustics off the hall, the Duke standing from his chair and slamming his fists hard enough against the table to send glasses toppling over the white tablecloths. His face is a deep shade of crimson as he practically burns with anger, the resounding silence of the hall thick and tangible as all eyes focus on him.

But he only has eyes for Lance, and Keith, where they stand holding onto each other in full view of the room.

“That is _enough,_ Lance!” He orders, his voice a dangerous growl as his fists bunch in the fabric of the tablecloth. “Get down here _now.”_

“No,” Lance tells him firmly, keeping hold of one of Keith’s hands as he turns to face the Duke. “I’m through listening to you Lotor: no more.”

Lotor scowls, his eyes holding a terrifying menace. “Get off that stage.”

“We’re through,” Lance tells him with conviction. They were words he had practiced all day: never in a million years did he think they would come out this way, but it was too late to go back now.

“You are _nothing_ without me!” Lotor shouts, anger seeming to burst from every pore. “GET DOWN HERE!”

“I am _EVERYTHING_ without you!” Lance shouts back just as loudly, holding firm to Keith’s hand for support.

“You stupid WHORE!” Lotor throws his chair back so he can step away from his table and closer to the stage. “You r _eally_ think he can love you, after all that you’ve done?”

“You think _I_ could love _you?”_ Lance spits at him, trembling where he stands in this perverted wedding dress. “You don’t deserve me.”

“ _No one_ deserves a whore like you,” Lotor growls, a hand slipping menacingly into the breast pocket of his suit. “You’re a danger to humanity!”

The room had been so fixated on these two they had not noticed as the musicians had abandoned their instruments and jumped from the stage, drawing attention as Hunk and Sven both took hold of Lotor’s shoulders and started pulling him towards the exit.

“Get your filthy hands off of me!” The Duke screamed, pulling against them. “You _dare – you dare! –_ to lay your hands on me? Do you _know_ who I am?”

Hunk doesn’t say a word in response, so Lotor turns his face back towards the stage, where the singer and the writer stand in foolish hope.

“I’ll destroy you before you destroy me,” He promises in a grave whisper.

As Lotor pulls his hand from his suit pocket the world slows down, the dull glint of the gun in his hand apparent even from half a room away. With a shout Lotor raises his hand and pulls the trigger without hesitation, Keith’s jaw dropping wide as he screams in warning-

It’s the stunned look on Lance’s face that makes the world move as normal once again, a look of surprise that Lotor would actually do it before his legs buckle beneath his weight.

Keith shouts as he catches Lance in his fall, bringing him to his chest as the audience erupts into screaming and running, desperate to make their escape. Lotor laughs maniacally as Matt wrestles the gun from his hand, happy to lose it once he saw that the bullet had met it’s mark.

“K-Keith-” Lance’s breathing is stuttered, his hand clawing at the front of Keith’s shirt.

“Shhh, shhh,” He tried to calm Lance, unable to hide his own panic. “You’ll be okay, you’ll be okay, Lance. Just breathe-”

The red was spreading horrifyingly fast across the corset of Lance’s dress, satin turning heavy and stained with each passing second. Keith pressed a hand to the wound, his fingers instantly turning slick with warm blood as he tried to stem the flow. “Just, just hang on,” He begged, pressing down on the wound and trying not to let himself cry. “You’ll be fine-”

“Keith-” Lance said, dropping a weak hand to rest over his. “It’s okay, it’s okay-”

“It’s _not_ okay,” Keith tells him, the tears overflowing and running down his cheeks, holding Lance as tight as he dare against his chest. “Please, Lance-”

“We’re even now,” Lance smiles weakly, and gives Keith pause.

“What do you-?”

“You’re crying - can’t tell me they’re allergies this time.” Lance’s face was pale, his voice growing quieter and quieter with each word, Keith needing to lean closer to catch his words. “We’re- we’re even now.”

Keith shook his head, tears dropping from his jawline. “No, no we’re not Lance. Not until you eat blueberries. Remember? We can’t be-”

“I think we’re going to need to call it quits,” Lance says with a weak smile, staring up at Keith with his endless blue eyes. “Lets just say you won.”

Keith couldn’t stop shaking his head, cradling Lance against him with a grip that promised to never let go. “Lance, don’t do this – don’t do this, please-”

Lance was so calm as he lay against Keith’s chest, reaching a shaking hand up to sweep across Keith’s cheek and wipe a tear from his eye. Being able to do that small gesture, it brought a smile to Lance’s lips so bright it was the happiest that Keith had ever seen him. He looked…content, lying here as he grew weaker and weaker in Keith’s arms, staring up at his writer and memorising the lines of his face while he could.

Keith pressed into Lance’s hand against his cheek, the palm already feeling cold against his skin. “Please Lance,” He begged in a lost whisper. “Please, I can’t-”

“I love you, Keith,” Lance says, his words slow. His gaze is starting to turn hazy as he struggles to focus, but he makes sure he can see the look on Keith’s face as he says those words. “I think…I think I always have…”

“I love you too, you idiot,” Keith gasps, caught between sobs. “Don’t you dare leave me, not now, not after all this. Do you hear me?”

Lance’s eyes flutter shut, that smile still in place at the confession he had only dreamed Keith would give him one day.

Keith’s eyes widen as he shakes Lance, the singer’s head lolling back limply. “Lance – _Lance,_ can you hear me?!”

The hand against his cheek fell away as Lance grew limp in his arms, not responding no matter how Keith screamed and cried for him to answer…

_‘Who lives forever anyway…?’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooooo okay I'm sorry, I'm really honestly truly very sorry.  
> My mind is a terrible place and I'm sorry to put you through this.  
> All I will say is that there is no 'major character death' tag for a reason, okay? I ain't kept it out just to fuck with you guys. I ain't about straight-up tragedy xxx


	16. I Don't Want To Miss A Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite the pain of the past, time moves on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS!  
> GUYS!! WE'RE HERE!!  
> Did anyone think we would actually make it? Because I sure as hell didn't.  
> Anyway, we've slogged through angst for so long, this is pretty much entirely fluff.  
> I'll leave a big spiel at the bottom, and let you get reading what you've so patiently waited for.  
> (Also, you're all so cute reassuring me when I missed my update last week!) 
> 
> ANYWAY, the final Postmodern Jukebox masterpiece is [I Don't Want To Miss A Thing!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9iDncS9-2vI) And with that I shall bid you adieu, and I'll see you at the finish line!
> 
> P.S, Lance's costume? Basically Satine's Pink Diamonds outfit (highly recommend googling to see it in all it's glory!).

_11 Months Ago…_

His world had slowed down, zeroing in on one thing and one thing only:

Lance, lying pale and still in his arms. Lance, who’s cheeks were more stained with Keith’s tears than his own. Who wasn’t responding as Keith screamed his name over and over, desperate for the singer to respond to him.

To Keith, he had lain here on the floor for decades, watching the colour fade from Lance’s cheeks as white satin turned red.

In reality, it had been merely seconds since the gunshot.

Lotor’s maniacal laughter could be heard above the screaming of the audience, many of them jumping from their seats in a desperate attempt to flee, ironically blocking the exits with their panicked stampede. Hunk and Sven wrestled to remove the Duke from the scene, Hunk’s face stricken and tense but not for one second letting up his tight grip on the Duke.

There were others at Keith’s side now, performers from backstage standing uselessly on the sidelines and crying. No one knew that to do, if there was even anything that could be done to help. Every one of them felt lost and guilty, certain they could have done something to avoid this tragedy but unsure of what.

Someone was at his side, insistent words trying to get through to him. It didn’t matter, Keith didn’t hear a word of it through the blood pounding in his ears, the deafening thunder that had rolled through his mind since Lance’s hand had fallen from his cheek.

A hand on his forearm, trying to remove his arms from around Lance. He tensed, refusing to let go: he couldn’t let him go, not yet, he wasn’t ready-

“Keith-” Shiro was saying softly at his side. “Keith, you need to let go-”

_No, absolutely not. Never: he wouldn’t let go, not again…_

“Keith,” Shiro pled. “This man is a doctor – please, let him help-”

Keith blinked dumbly, trying to clear the tears from his eyes to look at Shiro, noting the tuxedoed man standing behind him. “A-” His voice cracked, “A doctor?”

Shiro nodded. “Please, Keith – you need to let him help.”

Keith accepted with a weak nod of his head, watching with wide panicked eyes as the doctor sank to his knees on the other side of Lance, skilled hands reaching forwards to turn the singer towards him.

“Keith,” Shiro said, gently trying to peel Keith’s vice-like grip from Lance as the doctor attempted to work around him, “There’s nothing else you can do: you need to let someone else take over.”

“I-I can’t-” Keith said, his breath short as he felt the hysteria bubbling up his throat. “I can’t, Shiro-”

Shiro managed to remove one hand, taking it firmly in his own and holding tight to Keith to try and keep him from floating away. “Come on, buddy. He needs you to be strong for him and make the smart decisions.”

Keith felt terrified as he tried to understand Shiro’s reasoning, convinced that as soon as he released his grip Lance would disappear from the Earth as though he had never even existed, damning him to the aching agony of loneliness.

Keith’s other hand grew limp as that fear engulfed him, feeling like he would collapse as the doctor pulled Lance from him to settle him on the floor. Keith’s chest convulsed as he began to hyperventilate, his breaths short and useless, in his lungs for too brief a moment before gasping out and drawing in another pathetic mouthful. He was trembling as he watched the doctor hover over Lance – _Lance’s body –_ looking for the most minute signs of life, anything that told him there was still hope.

Shiro had taken him into his arms and was holding him against his broad chest, shushing him lightly as Keith found himself sobbing against his dearest friend, struggling to breathe and growing lightheaded but unable to process the pain in his own body as Lance lay there, not moving, bleeding out-

He screamed a strangled cry as Shiro dragged him to his feet and began to lead him away. He shrieked and cried as he was taken from Lance, too weak and numb to fight against Shiro’s determined grip. He fought with every fibre of his being to remain on the stage next to Lance, his tears choking him as Shiro led them down into the now-deserted seating area.

Shiro sat him down in a chair, placing his hands to Keith’s thighs to keep him seated as Keith scratched and scrambled to get back to Lance. Shiro grabbed his shoulders and gave him a shake, trying to catch his attention again. “Keith – Keith! I need you to calm down, I need you to-”

He couldn’t – he _couldn’t!_ He couldn’t just sit here and pretend he was fine and calm while just meters away-

“Keith, please, take a deep breath for me-”

Lance wasn’t breathing! What was he supposed to do. Air was the last thing he needed right now, the last thing on his list of things he needed to do. He needed to get back to Lance-

“Keith!” Shiro shook his shoulders again, watching where Keith was clutching his forearms to himself in almost a hug, how his nails were digging into his own flesh and not showing the slightest reaction. “Come on, buddy, you need to come back-”

Come back?

It was too late, too late for him to come back. He had to follow where Lance went, he-

_Quiet. So quiet, he almost missed it in the storm…_

Lance was gone, he was gone, was he-?

_Soft humming, calling to him through the chaos. Asking…_

Lance, he needed-

_Demanding…_

He needed-!

_‘Come back’…_

Keith blinked, long and slow, his train of panic derailed as the humming melody finally broke through the rushing in his ears. He heard the calming tune and suddenly his mind grew blank, his brain resetting and drawing a breath in on impulse. Shiro didn’t stop even as he noticed Keith calm, humming the tune he had learned years beforehand so he would always be able to get through to his friend.

_‘You’re all I’ll ever need,_

_Cross my heart and hope to bleed…’_

His trembling didn’t stop, but he was at least present enough in his own body to feel how he shook, to hear the rattle of his teeth in his own head. The panic was still present, still just as strong, but it had distanced itself with Shiro’s humming, making room for Keith to come back into his own body once more.

_‘I can’t lose you,_

_I’m not ready to follow your lead…’_

Keith blinked and turned to his friend, eternally grateful for the matron of the orphanage putting him in the bed next to Shiro’s. His breath was clipped, his throat ragged and clogged with tears, but he was back and grounded and he could only count his lucky stars that Shiro had always been there for him.

“I-I can’t lose him,” Keith whispered, his voice hopeless and flat.

Shiro pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, holding him tight with a silent promise that it would be okay.

“Lance is strong,” Shiro promised him, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his back. “He’s too petty to let Lotor win, and too determined to let you slip through his fingers.”

Keith choked on a sob at Shiro’s words, drained and heavy, his brain foggy and slow as the tears kept falling. “He told me he loved me…”

“Shhh,” Shiro said soothingly, rocking them both as though Keith were a baby.

“I called him an _idiot!”_ Keith cried. “When I told him I loved him, I called him-!”

“He knows what you meant,” Shiro promised, not letting Keith fall back into the pit of despair that continued to call his name. “He knows you Keith, he knows you.”

“I-” Keith buried his face in Shiro and, finally, raised his arms to hug around Shiro’s waist. “I can’t, I can’t lose him…”

Shiro held him tight, running a hand through Keith’s tangled black hair and promising things he wasn’t sure he could give him.

In the shock and horror weighing heavy across the hall a deafening silence descended, swallowing everyone standing within these walls and turning the air thick as tar. The air was gone, every breath a straining chore, mouths opening only for throats to crack and fail in breaking the silence. Some trembled, some paced, and some stood frozen as dread turned their flesh to stone.

The silence was unyielding: it swallowed them all whole, taking their world into its yawning maw and clamping down to doom them all to it’s desolate void. This would change them all, the stench of blood in the air set to taint their very beings.

And then, with one pathetic sound, the eternal chasm turned brittle and cracked, shattering to rain down across the floor and release them all from its hold. They all blinked, heads moving as one towards the stage as, miraculously, the body within the blood-stained wedding dress spluttered weakly and drew in a short, agonising breath.

Lance coughed, and the world rushed back in.

*****

_Now…_

_He knows this dream. It has plagued him for almost a year now, waiting in the shadows of his mind to emerge once he closes his eyes, wreaking havoc and forcing him to feel the fear and despair all over again._

_The feeling of blood on his skin – **Lance’s** blood. The heavy scent of iron in the air that leaves him weak and nauseous, his arms trembling around Lance’s weight as he desperately tries to keep him with him. _

**_“I love you,”_ ** _Comes the whisper, Lance’s lips still and pale._

_Keith is gripping him tight enough to bruise, but he knows it doesn’t matter anymore: it’s too late._

_Lance’s face, usually so bright as he teased Keith, is slack and white as death. He looks like a wax figurine, a terrible imitation of the man Keith loved, cold and horrifying._

**_“I think I always have…”_ **

_Lance’s face doesn’t move as the words come, whispering mockingly in his ears and taunting him. Lance’s last words, repeating over and over as he clings and cries and struggles to accept that he’s failed: that Lance is lost._

**_“I think I always have…”_ **

_He cries but the tears don’t fall. His heart breaks, but he feels the grin on his face, his fingers growing lax and letting Lance’s body fall to the floor with little ceremony._

_His hands are red. His hair is long, silky, white. His gun sits at his side, still smoking from the shot._

_He knows this dream, he knows what’s coming. But it doesn’t matter: it never fails to cut him to his core._

_His fingers run through his silken locks in disbelief, painting red streaks of blood and matting the strands. He opens his mouth to scream, but instead he hears the Duke’s mocking laughter burst from his throat. He looks down and his stomach drops as he notes Lance’s eyes have opened, clouded over and milky white in death but focused on him with a terrifying intensity._

**_“You did this_ ** _,” the dull voice of Lance tells him, his face unnervingly still as his eyes stare at him with hatred._

**_“I love you…”_ **

**_“This is your fault.”_ **

**_“I think I always have…”_ **

**_“You killed me-”_ **

_And it’s here that Keith snaps, always snaps. The mocking laughter, the way his skin crawls in the Duke’s skin, that scathing look in Lance’s dead eyes: he can’t take anymore._

_It’s a relief as he reaches down and takes the gun, not hesitating for a second before placing the barrel to his temple and pulling the trigger-_

He sits bolt upright in bed with a heaving gasp, his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead and his heart racing. His eyes blow wide and he looks around to place where he is, taking agonising seconds to recognise the room he’s in: he’s back, he’s home, it wasn’t real, it wasn’t-

Keith can’t relax, unable to get the image of Lance’s dead eyes out of his head. He feels the onset of panic crowding his lungs, squeezing, trying to push him off the edge into a full blown attack-

And while once it would have startled him, the warm hand that settles over where his where he grips the blanket is a comfort. One touch and he feels the panic recede, pushing the attack further back as Lance pulls on his hand to bring him back into their bed.

“Bad dream?” Lance asks hazily, his voice thick with the sleep he had been woken from.

“Sorry,” Keith mumbles, kissing Lance’s forehead and wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him close. The images of the dream still project on the edges of his mind, but they dull and quieten with Lance in his arms, the rise and fall of Lance’s chest against his.

“Did I die again?” Lance asks, placing a hot kiss to Keith’s neck before snuggling his face in below Keith’s jaw.

“It wasn’t about you,” Keith tells his pathetic lie.

Lance smirks against his skin, “So what was it about?”

In Keith’s defence it was the middle of the night and his heart was struggling to slow back down, so he really couldn’t have his idiocy held against him as he automatically said, “Squirrels.”

Lance chuckled. “Squirrels?” He asks incredulously.

“Oh yeah,” Keith tells him, shifting to lie on his back and bringing Lance to lie across his chest, his weight a comfort to keep him grounded. “Horrible little tree rodents. You’ve seen their teeth, right?”

Lance snorts through his nose, the sound ugly and endearing all the same. “What were they after – your _nuts?”_

Keith grimaces as he laughs despite himself. “You’re vulgar, McClain.”

“And you’re a bad liar, Red,” Lance tells him, letting his head drop in exhaustion onto Keith’s chest like his personal pillow. “But it’s okay: I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

The corner of Keith’s mouth quirks up at that, running his fingers through Lance’s hair and trying to sooth him back to sleep. “I know,” He says, no lies this time.

“I love you,” Lance mumbles, already halfway back to sleep, his body limp where he lies across Keith.

“I love you too,” He says without hesitation: he had learned the hard way to never hold yourself back from saying those words.

Lance drifts back to sleep but Keith is wide awake, watching the light beginning to press against the fabric of the curtains and tracing lazy fingertips over Lance’s back. He’s always touching, always listening to the rise and fall of Lance’s wispy breaths, the feel of his heartbeat, ready and waiting if Lance needs him, always prepared to hold on to what he can’t live without.

*****

_10 Months Ago…_

“Easy – easy, easyeasy-!”

“Hunk,” Lance scowled, frowning at him. “I’m fine, calm _down_.”

His friend was frantically waving his hands around him, ready should Lance suddenly keel over as he took the stairs out of the hospital. Lance kept his playful scowl in place, not letting Hunk know just how difficult he was already finding it as he white-knuckled the handrail.

“Just slow down a little,” Hunk tells him, face taught. “You don’t need to do it all at once.”

“It’s eight steps, Hunk!” Lance says as he plants his feet on the pavement, his personal decent from Everest over. He tries to ignore the aching throb in his gut, the painful tug on the forming scar tissue beneath the bandages he still had in place. His friend had worried and fretted about him finally heading home after the past few weeks struggling with a recurring infection, but as soon as he had confirmation that it had cleared up he was demanding to leave. He couldn’t stand it anymore, being confined to his assigned cot and waking up only to wait for the day to end, his boredom only alleviated by visits from his friends and shamelessly flirting with the sweet old ladies who were on the ward with him.

“Maybe we should just go home,” Hunk frets, nibbling at his lip. “Leave this for another day?”

“No way I’m not getting to say goodbye,” Lance says, already taking small steps and Hunk scrambling to catch up as though Lance was at a sprint.

“And it will still be there tomorrow-”

“Tomorrow,” Lance cuts in, “It will be a hollowed out husk of what I remember. I want to say goodbye to the club that I know, not it’s bare bones.”

After the incident with Lotor at the club, things had gone from bad to…well, worse. With the Duke confined to a cell for the foreseeable future, his mother had been left with taking care of the family's money and had apparently pulled funds from all of Lotor’s expenditures. This meant that Coran had promptly received a letter of eviction, as the building was to be sold to the highest bidder.

The one thing they could be thankful for is that Lotor had gone on a rampage in front of a crowd of his most wealthy and important friends: despite Lotor’s personal ties with the police and government, there was no way for him to weasel himself out of their hold against the ocean of testimony against him. So, at the very least, he was one less thing for Lance to be worrying about.

“We can still go later,” Hunk said, eyes scrutinising Lance and looking for any signs of a struggle.

“It’s across the road, Hunk,” Lance said. “If I’m having trouble, we can head home then.”

“And I’ll have to carry you, no doubt.”

Lance grins, the edge of his mouth crawling up towards his ear, “We both know you’re more than capable of that feat. And, who knows, maybe you could be my knight in shining armour and show off your rippling muscles to Shay?”

Hunk’s cheeks reddened at the mention of Shay’s name, the relationship fresh enough that he still found himself flustered at the idea of seeing her. “You can crawl up the stairs for all I care,” Hunk tells him, turning his burning cheeks away.

Lance laughs and lets himself grow quiet just to drink in the sights and sounds of the city, now at the ends of his fingertips instead of out of reach beyond his window. It had felt like dying, cut off and away from the hustle and bustle, locked away in brick to wait and heal. It had been frustrating, wanting more than anything to go outside and take a breath of air that hadn’t been trapped in the room with him for hours but being too weak to do anything about it.

_“You’re lucky to be alive,”_ His friends had told him when he grew too impatient, like the idea was supposed to sober him and help him accept his situation.

“ _If I was so lucky, I wouldn’t have been shot in the first place!”_ He started to snap before he could stop himself, growing weary from hearing the same condescending reminder over and over.

Keith was the first one that worked out how to quell his building irritation.

Instead of telling him logical, but ultimately unhelpful, truths, Keith had sat quietly and listened to Lance’s rant about the window not being open wide enough or the water that tasted stagnant or how he felt like the air that smelt of death was literally making him rot from the inside out. Then, when Keith came back the next day, he came with a huge bouquet of flowers. There was no rhyme nor reason to the floral collection, a bright and confusing mix of colour and species that Keith sat at Lance’s bedside, close enough for him to reach without straining.

“I asked for an assortment of everything they had,” Keith told him, his cheeks flaring in embarrassment in case Lance didn’t like the gift. “I didn’t know what you liked – but I figured they were better than nothing…” He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck, shying from Lance’s stunned look.

“I love them, Keith,” Lance told him earnestly, trying to reach for his hand but unable to without pulling at his side painfully.

Keith looked up at him, surprised at the reception to his chaotic bouquet. He sees Lance struggling and gives his hand over willingly, moving as though in a dream and surprised that Lance isn’t casting him out for having horrible taste in flowers.

“Thank you,” Lance tells him, squeezing his hand.

And for the coming days Lance spent his time working his way through the bouquet, pulling out each flower to appraise it’s colour, the curl of it’s petals, its perfume. He would close his eyes and take a deep breath through his nose, trying to pretend he was outside in a meadow, more than once imagining Keith at his side. He loved having so many different kinds of flowers at his side, asking the nurses and his fellow patients if he knew the names of the species. Amaryllis, baby’s breath, hydrangea, peony…

He thinks his favourite was the dark red carnation.

_“My late husband once gave me a bouquet of those,”_ Sophie, one of his new wardmates, had told him. _“Told me they represented affection – though, they were a lighter colour than that one.”_

Lance had raised an interested brow, not knowing that flowers could have meanings. He looked down at the ruffled petals, thumbing them and considering their deep hue. He had asked a few others if they knew what the darker red meant, but had to wait for the arrival of a night nurse to find his answer.

_“The dark red?”_ She had asked, peering to see the colour in the dwindling light and momentarily forgetting about Lance’s dressing change. “ _Well, my mother always told me that if a boy gave you deep red carnations, it was to a show of his endless love for you.”_

Lance had smiled at that, taking the flower into his hand once more and breathing in, trying to memorise it’s scent.

He had never thought he had a favourite flower before. But now? The dark red carnation was certainly a strong contender.

The next day he had asked if Hunk could bring him a thick book and piece of paper so that he could press the flower and preserve it before it could wilt. The book had sat on the windowsill of the ward, a heavy rock sitting on top to keep it weighted down as it warmed in the sun’s rays.

While the other flowers in the bouquet were long gone, the carnation sits safely within the book in his pocket, held close and still faintly smelling of its sweet perfume.

“Rule one,” Hunk told him as they drew near to the club, Lance’s feet already starting to speed up as he caught sight of it. “You’re not allowed to help move anything: standing on the side lines and saying goodbye only.”

“ _Hunk_ ,” Lance rolled his eyes. “I can surely help somehow-”

“Nope,” Hunk said firmly. “Either you agree to stay out of the way and not get involved, or I’m throwing you over my shoulder and we’re going home. Don’t push me.”

“Fiiiiiiiiine,” Lance sighs, not yet ready to be locked up in his flat just like the hospital. “I promise I will be good and not try and help.”

Hunk looked satisfied as they walked through the front doors that were being propped open and letting the day’s breeze into the club’s lobby. Already he was grinning and waving at his friends and co-workers as they paused with boxes in their hands and greeted him warmly, happy to see him again.

“I’ll be around for a bit,” Lance promised them. “Come see me in the hall when your hands are free!”

The main hall was already so different, the tables having been removed and the chairs stacked at the sides of the room to leave the centre hollow and empty. Lance wasn’t ready for it all to look so different, and if he thought this was bad he certainly didn’t want to be around when the entire place was packed up and sold off.

His eyes rose to the stage, to the varnished wood where his blood had long been scrubbed from, and he paused in his steps. He could almost hear the screaming, Keith’s pleading as his tears hit his face. The wound in his stomach burns at the memory, as though experiencing the agony of being shot all over again.

“Come on,” Hunk says, seeing Lance’s hesitation and noting where his eyes were resting. He takes his hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s head on through to the back.”

The dressing room is like a balm to his frayed nerves, the chaos a familiar comfort with enough movement to keep him distracted from how bare the room already seems. Many of the dressing tables have already been cleared of their contents, the performers having packed up the make-up and knick-knacks they had kept there. He takes to the chaos like a fish to water, grinning and turning to say hi to everyone as they all look overjoyed to see him, abandoning their various tasks to draw him into tight hugs. Each embrace pulls against his wound edges painfully, but he couldn’t care as he holds everyone close, ruffling Pidge’s hair playfully and resting his forehead on Allura’s shoulder.

“It’s good to see you up and about, m’boy!” Coran practically shouts, holding his hand out for a handshake but Lance walking straight in to surprise him with a hug. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now,” Lance says truthfully, despite the twinging pain. “It feels like coming home.”

“Not for much longer,” Coran says, looking around sadly. “We’ve made some good memories in this old girl, shame it had to come to an end.”

The energy of those standing around them drops with Coran’s words, everyone quietening and glancing at one another uneasily. This was to be a new start for all of them: Coran simply didn’t have the money left to be able to afford the rent of another theatre, they had put their remaining savings into a play that was destined never to be seen. So now they were all at an uncertain crossroads where it was time to find new jobs and go their own ways. It was bittersweet, seeing all of the people he had become friends with over the years only to know that this was one of the last times he would see them all together.

“I suppose I should clear out my dressing table, while I’m here,” Lance says, needing something to break the silence. 

“Correction,” Hunk says, throwing his arm around Lance’s shoulder but not allowing it’s full weight to settle as though he expected Lance to shatter like glass beneath it. “ _I_ will clear out your dressing table while you sit and watch.”

Lance groans as the other chuckle and disperse, wishing they could spend more time with Lance but needing to get moving if they were to get the club cleared in such a short time frame.

“Sit,” Hunk orders, and Lance has no objections as he frankly collapses into the chair. He was trying to ignore how draining coming here actually was, but he refused to pass up the opportunity: he had plenty of time to rest later.

It’s when he’s in the middle of meticulously instructing Hunk how to properly package his make-up to ensure safe transport that he almost spasms right out of his chair in excitement as he sees Keith and Shiro walk into the room to help out with the move. He hisses in pain as his wound complains at his erratic behaviour, Hunk abandoning his packing to check if Lance was okay.

Keith catches sight of Lance’s hunched over form and makes a beeline, cutting through the chaos with a determined stride before asking, “Are you alright?”

Lance glances up at the worried tone and smiles fondly at Keith’s appearance, sitting up too soon and hissing through clenched teeth again. He waves off Hunk and Keith’s hovering hands, telling them with a strained voice, “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just…need a minute.”

“Are you okay?” Keith asks again after a minute, feeling useless that he can’t help.

“Just peachy,” Lance tries to grin, sitting back in the chair and taking a careful breath as the pain abates.

Keith’s eyebrows are furrowed, the expression cute beyond belief as his brow wrinkles in concern. “Maybe you should-”

“Will you all please stop telling me what to do,” Lance begs them, placing a hand over the wound and willing the pain away. “I’m fine – I promise!”

“Okay…” Keith says, uncertain but not wanting to argue. He has to admit to himself that, despite it being incredibly selfish, he is overjoyed to see Lance somewhere other than between the dull white sheets of the hospital.

“I didn’t know you were getting out today,” Shiro says as he walks over, clapping a hand to Lance’s shoulder.

“Neither did I,” Hunk says, returning to packing Lance’s things. “I turn up to the hospital to visit, and boom: Lance is ready and waiting to go. _Apparently,”_ He says pointedly, “He wanted to leave hours ago, but wasn’t allowed to be discharged without someone collecting him.”

“I got the all clear from the doctor,” Lance shrugs.

“What you _got,”_ Hunk amends, “Was the confirmation that the infection had cleared up. You still have a lot of healing to do, and the doctor was of the opinion you should have stayed a few more days for monitoring-”

Lance waves him off, cutting him off quickly as he sees the concern only grow on Keith’s face. “It’s _fine:_ if I can heal in a hospital, I can heal in my own bed.”

“But in the hospital, there are people checking on you,” Keith says, his eyes growing wide with worry.

“Then how about you come over and we can play doctor?” Lance grins and raises a brow, reducing Keith to a bumbling mess at his implication and making Hunk sigh heavily.

“And absolutely _no_ ‘extracurricular activities’ until you’re better,” He scolds like a parent, tutting to himself in disbelief as he closes the box in his hands.

“It’s not like he can stop us,” Lance stage whispers to Keith behind a cupped hand, enjoying the writer’s blush immensely.

“You will be keeping that door of yours open if you’ve got Keith round,” Hunk says, hand on his hip.

“I didn’t know you were a voyeur,” Lance says with a wink, and Hunk sighs.

“You see?” He appeals to Shiro. “You see what I’m dealing with?”

“Don’t worry,” Shiro laughs and shakes his head. “Keith will help keep him in line – _won’t you,_ Keith _?”_

It takes Keith a minute to reboot his brain and keep himself from continuing to short-circuit, getting himself under control in time to see Shiro’s expectant gaze before practically shouting, “Yes sir!”

Shiro chuckles, and Lance side-eyes Keith with a look that tells him he’s looking forward to the challenge of trying to reacquaint with the writer: he knew there was a way to make Keith’s resolve crumble, he just had to find it.

“Guys!” The shout cuts across the din of the room and Pidge appears shaking a newspaper at all of them in a manner that meant none of them could make heads nor tails of whatever had caused her excitement. “Look! You need to read this!”

“Will you stop shaking that, Pidge?” Lance begs, clutching his belly. “Watching it is turning my stomach.”

She calms finally and holds the opened paper in front of them, barely allowing them the chance to read the headline before asking, “Can you believe it?”

And, frankly, Lance cannot.

He reads and rereads, just to be sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him, before having to accept that the headline he’s reading is actually real.

**‘Going Out With A Bang: The Show With A Gut-Wrenching Finale’**

At first he thinks it’s satire and he doesn’t appreciate being the butt of the joke, but as Lance reads his scowl softens, realising that the headline is only there to trick readers into reading the article and, instead of finding news of the evening’s events, they find something entirely different.

A review.

A review, _singing their praises!_

They all crowd around the paper in silence as they each read, disbelief apparent on their faces as they read the article written by one Romelle Pollux, bittersweet words that could have saved their home if only they had come sooner.

*****

_Now…_

Lance fought against the pull of the light streaming through the fabric of the curtains, rebelling against the sun’s demands to rouse him. He didn’t want to be awake, not yet. He had been having the nicest dream…

He blindly reaches out behind him, searching for the familiar heat at his back, wishing for Keith’s weight around him to keep him secure and close. But the other side of the bed has long gone cold, clearly vacated well before Lance woke. He sits up groggily, peering in the dimness of the room as if expecting Keith to pop up from a hiding place at the end of the bed.

It’s when he hears clattering come from the direction of the kitchen he forces himself to stand, padding out of the room in search of his missing bed warmer.

Keith is standing with his back to him, and for a solid minute Lance has to stop just to watch him. The flick of his black hair where it traces his shoulders, the hard lines of his back, curving down to his perfect-

What can he say, Lance likes to appreciate his man.

Regardless of how quiet his bare feet slip across the wood of the floor, its not enough to surprise Keith. As Lance wraps his arms around Keith’s waist the writer doesn’t so much as flinch, automatically pushing back into Lance’s heat as Lance’s bony chin settles on his shoulder.

“Whatcha doing?” Lance asks, ignoring the obvious answer as he watches Keith whisking eggs.

“Making breakfast,” Keith humours him. “Bacon and eggs sound good?”

“Sounds _heavenly,”_ Lance purrs in his ears, his hands pressed flush with the hard lines of Keith’s stomach. Keith chuckles and shrugs off Lance’s growing advances that are anything but subtle. But Lance doesn’t mind: he likes to tease, even if it doesn’t go anywhere. And there’s a content domestic bliss settling in his gut that he doesn’t want to lose as he watches Keith prepare breakfast for him. It’s nice, having someone who actually wants to do things for him. What has startled Lance the most in their months together has been just how much he appreciates the small things Keith does for him without even asking, or how that stupid grin creeps onto his face as he does something with Keith in mind. Between them its an easy give and take, no residual guilt when one helps the other. In general Keith isn’t the most skilled of cooks, but Lance has to give props where props are due: the boy knows how to make a mean breakfast.

They sit together at their small table in their small flat, legs tangled up in one another as they wolf down the food. When he finishes his meal, its almost too easy as he threads his fingers with Keith’s across the table and runs his fingertips over the rise and fall of his knuckles.

“You ready for tonight?” Lance asks him, now idly tracing shapes over the back of Keith’s hand.

Keith grunts, shrugging, “I will be. There’s some work I need to get done before though, so I think I’ll head down soon to get started on it. I’ll take my change of clothes with me: no point coming all the way back here.”

Lance hums in acknowledgement, a sly curl on his lips as he looks up at Keith through his eyelashes. “I have a surprise for you.”

This makes Keith raise an apprehensive eyebrow, never the one for surprises. “Oh yeah?”

“It’s a nice surprise, I swear,” Lance laughs, light and joyful, and the sound instantly chases the concern from Keith’s face. “You’ll like it.”

“I trust you,” He tells him begrudgingly, seemingly not convinced by even his own words. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Lance grins as he stands and takes their plates in hand, leaning across to peck Keith on his cheek. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” He promises.

Keith feigns nonchalance terribly, Lance noting the strained action of simply shovelling eggs into his mouth before Lance can disappear with his plate. He swallows around the food with difficulty, glancing out the window as he tries to off-handedly say, “I’ve got a surprise for you too.”

Already Lance’s ears are piqued: like he said, Keith isn’t one for surprises, and that _includes_ arranging them. Lance practically launches himself across the kitchen in excitement, the plates precariously thrown on the counter as he demands loudly, “Please, please – tell me, Keith. Tell me, tell me, tell me-”

Keith gently pries Lance’s hands from where they’re gripping the front of his shirt, laughing at his overzealous reaction. “I thought you knew what ‘surprise’ meant?”

“I’ll tell _you_ if you tell _me_.”

“Not going to work.”

“Come on,” Lance whines, too excited to wait.

“Nope.”

“Please?”

“No.”

* _pause*_

“Oh for-!” Keith scoffs, “Put the puppy dog eyes away, it’s not going to work.”

Lance pouts up at him, not enjoying Keith denying him. “What about if I guess, will you tell me then?”

“No.”

“Is it a present?”

_*silence*_

“Are we pregnant??”

* _horrified silence*_

_"HOW WOULD THAT EVEN WORK?"_ Keith shrieks hysterically.

Lance laughs at the pale hue of Keith’s face at his ridiculous suggestion, but he figured if he annoyed/terrified Keith with his further suggestions it would only make breaking him down easier. He batted his eyes up at him, a dark fan of lashes surrounding the prominent blue, “Did you learn to dance? For me?”

Keith scoffs and shrugs off Lance’s attention, turning his back to busy himself with the dirty dishes. “My dancing isn’t that bad,” Is all he response Lance gets.

Lance laughs, a loud and raucous thing as he tries to convey just how wrong that statement sounds.

“I’ve gotten better,” Keith says defensively, rolling his eyes and deciding to ignore his boyfriend as he continues to cackle behind him.

“Not that bad, he says,” Lance says, hovering at his back and not stopping for a second, “Have you forgotten my birthday, hmm? Remember? Remember tripping over your own feet and almost breaking your nose? How many times do you think you’ve stepped on my feet when trying to dance? Remember when I first tried to teach you to dance, huh Keith? You were like a little lost puppy-”

Lance is suddenly silenced as Keith whirls on him and clamps a hand wet with dish water – _ew! –_ over his mouth to quiet him. “Please,” Keith begs, ignoring the disgusted wrinkle of Lance’s nose, “Please stop. It’s too early for this.”

Lance scrubs at his face when Keith removes his hand, “You’ve been up for who knows how long, it’s not early for you!”

“It’s always too early when it comes to you,” Keith smirks, earning a playful shove to his shoulder as well as a tongue stuck out in his direction.

“You’re no fun,” Lance pouts.

“Nope, no fun at all,” Keith deadpans with a contained grin. “God, I’m the worst aren’t I?”

Lance crosses his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes and seeing if he can goad Keith to do what he wants as he says, “I bet my surprise is better than yours.”

But Keith refuses to be drawn in, shrugging as he turns those infuriating smug dark eyes on him, “I guess we’ll just need to see.”

“I guess we will.” Lance steps forwards, maintaining his pout and poking at Keith’s chest. “You best prepare yourself, buddy boy. I’m going to knock your socks off.”

Instead of upping the anti as Lance expected, Keith leans forwards and captures Lance’s lips with his own, Lance’s prodding finger instantly softening to lie flat against Keith’s chest. It’s really not fair how kissing Keith leaves him so brainless, his antics forgotten in the instant their lips touch.

Keith pulls away too soon, leaving Lance dazed and lost in their argument. “I’m looking forward to it,” Keith promises genuinely before getting ready to leave.

*****

_8 Months Ago…_

“It sounds to good to be true,” Keith says with a guarded tone, ever suspicious of such miraculous turns.

“It certainly does,” Coran says, the excited energy rolling off of him. They’re in Lance and Hunk’s apartment: Coran, Allura, Keith, Lance and Hunk clustered together in the small living room.

“I meant that in a bad way,” Keith clarifies. “As in, there’s absolutely, positively no _way_ this is a real offer.”

“Oh, lighten up Keith,” Lance tells him, playfully elbowing him in the ribs. Lance’s range of motion has been steadily improving up until now, his jabs and swipes becoming more daring by the day. He’s just lucky that Keith still views him as too fragile to merit retaliation beyond a simmering glare.

“Just hear him out, Red,” Lance pleads, batting those big blue eyes at him, and Keith’s a goner. Allura snickers behind her hand at the show of the pair of them, how easily Lance has him wrapped around his little finger, and Keith glares at her across the coffee table.

“How am I supposed to believe that a theatre wants to put us up – for _free –_ on the off chance that the play we put on could actually be decent?” Keith asks, his dismissive tone having disappeared under Lance’s pleads.

“Well, it’s not for _free,”_ Coran amends, raising a finger. “More…a loan, of the space. They will take their fair share when we begin to sell tickets. They’re to gain plenty in this exchange, should the gamble pay off.”

“But _why?”_ Keith asks: he just can’t understand the interest.

“They saw Miss Pollux’s review,” Coran says, all of them noticing how Allura’s cheeks pinken at the mention of Romelle. “And they’re intrigued. With Lotor and the shooting tying into what was already a well-anticipated performance, they believe it’s set to become an instant hit.”

“So we’re capitalising on Lance getting shot?” Hunk asks.

“Well, someone should!” Lance says with a laugh, grateful for his friend looking out for him but ultimately not needing it. “Silver linings and all that, right?”

“Exactly!” Coran beams. “In fact, they were wondering if we would consider changing up the ending so that every performance could have the same show-stopping suspense and excitement at the end.”

“Changing?” Keith asks, his mouth pressed into a straight line. “Are they aware how long the first finale took to write?”

“Which _Lotor_ wrote,” Lance points out to him. “He ruined the ending – hell, if anything it’s a _good_ thing I got shot so people didn’t have to watch the scarfweaver completely sell out.”

Lance’s humour isn’t well received as everyone shoots him unamused looks, but he just shrugs. “I’m just saying, is all.”

“What kind of changes?” Hunk asks, drawing them back to the topic.

“As noted in Romelle’s article, for a second she thought Keith was actually the painter returning, seemingly having escaped death at the Prince’s hands to return to his beloved. Of course, that illusion was shattered when Lotor, well…”

“Turned me into a human doughnut?” Lance offered. “A bagel?” His voice quickly tapers out as Keith silently threatens to hit him, the two staring each other down as though Lance is daring him to go through with it. Eventually Keith sighs and backs down, and Lance grins smugly.

“Anyway-” Coran says, “The theatre thinks it would be a good idea to have the Prince appear amongst the crowd when the painter and the scarfweaver reunite, and the Prince will-”

“Turn the scarfweaver into a saint?” Lance asks, practically vibrating in his seat with excitement.

A moment or two passes as they all turn to him with blank stares, not understanding the punchline. He snickers, before pointing to his wound sight and saying, “Holey?”

At that Keith straight up loses it and lies his back against the ground, his hands covering his face as he groans dramatically.

“I don’t feel like these changes are appropriate,” Allura says with a wrinkled nose. “I mean, it was a _serious_ incident, Lance could have died. It feels…unsavoury, to use such a traumatic ordeal for personal gain.”

“Allura, you are kidding me if you can’t see what potential this has,” Lance tells her, growing frustrated as, once again, people begin making decisions about how he should feel for him. “An ending every night that proves as exciting as the first? We’ve already got a tonne of free publicity about this, we should seize the opportunity.”

The rest of the room looks divided, each battling with their personal morals as to whether or not this was right. Coran’s face is one of careful indifference, as always here to present the situation and let his performers decide the path to take.

Lance stood, determined to not let them squander what had practically fallen into their laps. “Guys, this could be the way we keep the Café de L’Altea alive! Haven’t the past couple of months been a horrible slog of trying to work out what you’re going to do to bring money in - do you really want the memory of the club to fade into oblivion as we all go our separate ways? Where is the harm in taking up their offer? We worked so hard on this play, we can’t just give up now.”

“I’ve never heard of a play with an ending like this before,” Hunk says, mulling over Lance’s words. “With the performance extending out into the audience. And Lance is right – we;ve certainly had enough publicity around it.”

Allura is nibbling at her lip, crossing her arms over her front and looking to her brother for his opinion, still frustratingly masked with stoicism.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Keith asks, refusing to get swept up in Lance’s giddiness. He needed to ask the serious questions here: without regular pay in the club, he needed to find jobs to keep his head above water. He wasn’t sure he could pin his hopes on this particular fever dream.

“What have you got to lose?” Lance asks.

“A roof over my head?” Keith points out as though its obvious.

“Please, Keith,” Lance begs, moving to get onto his knees to plead properly but something about the position strains his established scar tissue so he only makes it to one knee like it’s a twisted proposal. “Take a chance on us – aren’t we worth the risk?”

Keith’s mouth opens only for no sound to come out as he considers Lance’s words. Because he doesn’t even need to take a consensus from the room as a whole: Lance alone was worth the risk.

He sighs, defeated as he says, “I suppose things couldn’t get much worse.”

“That’s the spirit!” Coran beams, noticing how Allura is getting swept up in the excitement: it wouldn’t be long before she caved either. “I’ll let the Château des Lions know our answer, and we can get started!”

*****

_Now…_

Lance doesn’t know what to do with his day. For the first time in a long time, he has nothing to do. And worse, Keith _has_ something to do. And worse still, _Hunk_ is busy. As is Pidge. And Allura. And Coran. And Shiro, and Adam, and anyone else he had through to knock on the door of to demand they entertain him. So instead he was aimlessly walking through the sun-lit streets of Paris in the springtime, the brightness of the sun promising warmth only to step out into the remaining chill from winter. Lance longed for the summer’s sweltering heat, but at least this was better than the darkness of winter.

He ambled along the river, stopping in at a bakery to buy himself something sweet to munch on as he continued on his directionless journey.

Even after all this time it surprises him when his body leads to the Pont du Carrousel.

He sits on the wall he has been drawn to hundreds of times since that night things ended with Nyma, kicking his feet out over the water and happily biting down on the sweet pastry in his hand that leaves flaking crumbs across the top of his shirt.

He watches how the sun glints off of the water below, noting the shaky outline of where he is reflected below. A dark silhouette, kicking its legs out in time with him as he ripples with the current.

He sighs contently, looking up the Seine and enjoying watching the Parisians go about their days around him. This spot, that once seemed so desolate to him, is humming with life and soul as it whizzes past him, its buzzing energy drawing him in as the sun graces his skin.

It strikes him as odd, looking back on when he decided this wall would be the last piece of solid earth he set his foot on. Like he was remembering a scene from a book rather than from his actual life: he just couldn’t seem to recognise the man he had been back then.

It’s so pretty here.

With his pastry finished Lance jumps to his feet, aware of the one errand he wishes to run before the day is out. He stops at the florists and chats easily with the man behind the counter, the pair excitedly chatting about the blooming flowers of spring before Lance asks for two daffodils, perfect for the time of year.

He always finds it odd, a cemetery in the middle of the city seeming so peaceful: as though it existed in an entirely different plane of reality from the one he had just came from. It’s serene here, his eyes dragging over the endless tombstones until his feet lead him to his destination through muscle memory alone.

He settles on his knees and removes the two flowers from the florist’s packaging, placing one on each gravestone:

_Nyma Chabert Rolo Reedus_

_Always In Our Hearts Beloved Son, Brother, Uncle_

As always, his throat closes up as he sits here, unable to escape that aching guilt settled heavy in his chest.

“Hey guys,” He says, his throat feeling dry as he runs his fingers through the grass at his side. “What’s new?”

He comes here every week or so, to give them each a flower and promise that they haven’t been forgotten. He comes to apologise, too many apologies to count, for his role in what happened to them. And he comes to keep them company, terrified of them being trapped in limbo and alone forever after their horrific end.

He comes and he forgives. He forgives, and tries to ignore the selfish hope that they forgive him too.

*****

_6 Months Ago…_

“Oh my GOD!” Lance screams with an ear-splitting shriek. “Oh my god, you finally did it! You big, beautiful idiot, you DID IT!”

Shiro is blazing scarlet, all the way to the tips of his ears, as Lance prances around him and draws attention to them both. Keith is aptly staying out of it, knowing better than to try and rein Lance in despite the pleading looks Shiro is sending his way. The pair were in the middle of a rehearsal before had spied the silver band around Shiro’s finger, a small glittering jewel at its centre.

Shiro is trying to calm Lance, glaring at where Keith stubbornly stares down at his page of notes, as he points out, “Well, _Adam’s_ the one that did it.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Lance shrieks, drawing Shiro into a hug. “You both did it – you did it!!! When’s the wedding – can I be a bridesmaid?”

“Shouldn’t we be getting back to rehearsal-?” Shiro pointedly said, raising his voice to where Hunk and Keith were adamantly ignoring him.

“Adam proposed?” Hunk asked under his breath, his reaction far more restrained than his roommate’s.

“Yep,” Keith says out the corner of his mouth, still stubbornly pretending to be working on something. “Last night, cooked up a big fancy dinner for him and paid me to get lost for a few hours.”

“I thought you had plans with Lance?”

Keith smirked, eyeing Hunk. “I did – but if Adam wants to pay me to not be around, I’m not going to say no.”

Shiro looks like he’s under attack on the stage as Lance’s dramatics have called other performers to appear from the woodwork to appraise the ring and offer their congratulations. Keith resigns them all to a 10 minute break as he turns to Hunk and shows his page of scribbled notes and worries.

“Do you think we need to change-”

“No we don’t,” Hunk says without even reading the frantic notes. “We don’t need to change or to cut a scene, or add another song. Keith – it’s perfect.”

Keith worries his lip between his teeth, the gears in his head turning over and shrieking with the scrape of metal against metal. “What if it isn’t? If this is a disaster, we’re back out on our asses. Only now, we have an angry theatre board coming after us for letting them down.”

“We open next week,” Hunk says rationally, his logical words soothing Keith’s fraying nerves. “There _is_ no more change, Keith. Now is the time to buckle down and put faith in what you’ve created: we’ve already sold out for the first two weeks solid. Just…breathe.”

“Breathe,” Keith scoffs with sarcasm, rolling his eyes. “Need I remind you what happened the last time we tried to launch this show?”

“You mean Lance getting shot and everyone fleeing the theatre in a blind panic?” Hunk says far too easily, not missing how Keith violently shudders at the reminder. “I do remember, but here’s some perspective: it literally can _not_ get worse than that, right?”

Keith doesn’t look convinced, raising a sceptical brow. “ _That’s_ how low we’re setting the bar, huh?”

Hunk just laughs, clapping him on the back with a firm hand. “We’ll be grand, just wait and see!”

*****

_Now…_

His hand is cramping.

A part of Keith wants to stop, to drop his pen and chill for a few minutes to stretch out the painful tightness in his hand. But he’s caught on a train of thought that barrelling forwards at a million miles an hour and he knows if he jumps off for even a moment he’ll lose it and get left behind in the dust. So he grits his teeth through the pain and pushes on, determined to get the words down before they disappear.

_Five lions, feral and snarling, loyal to their one and only paladin…_

_Guardians of the Earth: the spirits of fire, water, forest, land and sky coming together to protect their homes…_

_An entitled heir to an empire, intent on taking the world and shaping it as his own…_

Keith knows it’s a bit... ‘out there’. Any time he finds pause in his manic writing the anxiety creeps back in, the voice in the back of his head growing louder and louder with each written word, promising him that this will be a disaster. He was a fluke, a one hit wonder: no way he could write a success a second time.

But then the need to write would grip him again and, for a short while, the voice would be blissfully gone. He was terrified, feeling like he was leaving an exposed nerve on the page, giving anyone who read it the power to shut him down with one negative look.

But it was exhilarating, how clearly he could see the story unravelling in front of him. Almost as though he were living it, seeing the scenes clear as day. To pull off what he was imagining... it was going to be a challenge. But if it was done right? He believed it could be ground-breaking.

*****

_3 Months Ago…_

Keith honestly can’t believe it.

Every morning he expects to wake up to find it had all been a misguided dream, a retreat from his dismal and disappointing reality that predictably came crashing back down to earth.

_‘A Must See!’_

_‘An Instant Classic!’_

_‘Kogane: A Talent to Watch!’_

But, every morning, he woke up and checked the papers at his bedside, put there as proof that his dream hadn’t been a dream at all. The past few months, it was all real, and there was no escaping that fact.

The show was a raging success, practically every performance selling out as the theatre packed in the attendees to take in the story he had created. They sit mystified and silent as the scarfweaver and the painter fall in love before their eyes again and again, and there are always screams of excited delight as the Prince appears amongst them during the finale to turn the hopeful ending into a tragedy. Then, the excited air dissolves into one of grief as the lovers say their goodbyes on stage, singing a reprise of ‘ _Who Wants To Live Forever?’_ before the scarfweaver falls limp in the painter’s arms and the curtain drops.

At this point, with tears fresh in their eyes, the audience jumps to their feet to applaud and cheer the production, overwhelmed with the story and showing their gratitude through decibels.

Or so Keith is told: he can never stay to watch the end. It brings up too many painful memories, the scene on stage terrifyingly similar to what he went through. He wrote the final moments by drawing on his fear of almost losing Lance, leaving the characters raw and aching, but he simply couldn’t bear to watch it acted out on stage.

He would leave and hide away in Lance’s private dressing room, the tremble in his hands a personal secret until Lance returned from his adoring fans to take Keith in his arms and calm him.

Tonight is one of celebration: originally, it was the night set to signify the play’s end. However, after recent correspondence, it is now the night to celebrate the recently signed 3 year contract between Coran and the Château des Lions: they would be the sole troupe the theatre worked with, continuing to show plays twice a week while being able to return to their roots the other nights with the musical events they had made their name with. It had worked out better than any of them could have hoped, and Keith thanks his lucky stars he had Lance to help him take the plunge.

“So, how is it being a grown up with your own place?” Adam teases him, jostling his shoulder and earning a scowl rooted in humour.

“It’s great,” He says snarkily, “ _Especially_ without Shiro’s snoring: enjoy that for the rest of your life.”

Shiro looks offended, ready to jump to his own defence before Adam calms him. “He’s right, babe,” He teases, chuckling at the look of indignation in Shiro’s eye. “I still love you though.”

“I get rid of one nasty roommate only for him to be replaced by another,” Shiro grumbles under his breath, sipping from his glass of whiskey. “Great.”

The group burst into laughter, but Keith’s attention is drawn – as it always is – as Lance appears at his side, tugging on his hand. “I need a smoke,” Lance tells him, batting eyelashes his way. “Come with me?”

And, as always, Keith is weak to Lance’s request as he lets himself be led from the roaring laughter of his friends – when had these people become more than merely colleagues to him? – to the quiet back streets of the theatre.

It’s almost comical, the déjà vu Keith feels as he steps out into the dwindling darkness at just another staff back door, waiting for Lance to grab a cigarette and ready to strike a match for him.

Keith leans his back against the wall and Lance follows after him, pressing their shoulders together and Lance resting his head on Keith’s shoulder. “Can I stay at your place tonight?” He asks, oddly tentative. “I think Hunk wants some ‘alone time’ with Shay, if you know what I mean?”

Keith snorts, shaking his head at his boyfriend as he amends, “Are you sure _you’re_ not the one looking for some ‘alone time’, Monsieur McClain?”

Lance acts aghast, clutching at imaginary pearls around his throat. “You think so lowly of me, Monsieur Kogane?”

Keith just chuckles, not voicing out loud that, yes, that is _exactly_ how lowly he thinks of Lance.

“So…Shay and Hunk are getting pretty serious,” Lance says, pointing it out like it’s news.

Keith hums in agreement. “Yeah, they really seem to suit one another. It’s nice to see them so happy together.”

Lance is giving Keith a weird, almost-frustrated look out the corner of his eye that he doesn’t catch, saying pointedly, “I bet they’ll move in together soon.”

“You think so?” Keith asks, looking out the stars above the city and wondering why they’re not being blocked by a plume of Lance’s smoke. “Hey, aren’t you-?”

“They’re so in _love,”_ Lance says casually. “They’re practically living together now – not much room for me left up there.”

“You thinking of moving out?” Keith says idiotically, still not _getting the point-_

“Yeah, I think so,” Lance says, some sarcasm slipping into his voice as he looks at his boyfriend incredulously. “Shame though, a flat by myself will be so _expensive.”_

“You can afford it nowadays, what with being a big star of the stage,” Keith says, rubbing his hands together to keep warmth in his fingertips. “Are you going to smoke or can we-?”

With a cry of indignation Lance is on him, caging him with a hand at either side of his head and his face inches from Keith’s. “ _Keith,”_ He snarls, begging him to _take the fucking hint-_

Keith’s eyes blow wide, unsure of the turn the conversation had taken. “Y-yes?”

Lance huffs out a long breath, warring with himself before saying with tired frustration, “Can you _please_ just ask me to move in with you already?”

“O-oh?”

Lance looks about ready to blow a gasket at Keith’s stuttered response, heat rising to his cheeks and instantly deflating, turning away in embarrassment for his outburst. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed-”

“Hey,” Keith said, snatching Lance’s wrist and pulling him back against him before he can sulk in misunderstanding. “Just let me catch up – I thought you always wanted to move in when you got married?”

Lance huffs, rolling his eyes. “Well I’m pretty sure that’s coming someday, so I figure why wait when we can get ahead of the game?”

Keith short-circuits. He doesn’t even blink as Lance’s words hit him.

Lance sees the change, and realises just what he said. “No- no Keith, not like that-”

“Did- did you just propose?” Keith asked, awestruck and feeling like his eyes will simply fall out his head with how wide they are.

“No!” Lance cries. “No, no I didn’t! I just meant – I don’t know, I don’t want to explain it further than I want to live with you. Do you want to live with me?”

Keith still hasn’t blinked, and Lance buries his face in his shirt in embarrassment. “Eurgh – just forget I said anything! Jesus, I wish I had a smoke-”

“Did you leave them inside?” Keith asks innocently, apparently jumping on a subject change while the back of his mind processes the past thirty seconds.

“I don’t have any,” Lance says, partly miserably and partly with pride. “I’m quitting – trying to, at least.”

“Good for you,” Keith congratulates warmly, before a thought occurs to him. “Wait – they why did we come out here-”

“Jesus!” Lance cries, feeling ready to dissolve into a puddle and let the earth swallow him. “This! _This_ is the guy I’m in love with?”

Keith is beyond confused before it seems to click in his head – _finally! –_ asking for clarification, “Wait, did you make up wanting a smoke just to get me alone?”

“Yes!” Lance practically screams, caught up in emotional agony. “Though heaven knows I bloody need one now-”

Lance is caught off-guard as a fully-grown Keith barrels into him and takes him in his arms, spinning them both in circles as he kisses Lance with a sudden desperation, Lance winding his hands around his neck in an attempt to hang on.

“Move in with me,” Keith breaks the kiss and the words spill out, like they had been waiting on the tip of his tongue.

Keith is still holding Lance off the ground, looking up at him like he was all that mattered in the world. Lance is guilty in an instant, shying away from those mesmerised eyes, “I’m sorry – just forget I said anything-”

“Move in with me,” Keith commands more firmly, shaking Lance as though to make an answer tumble out of him.

Lance tries to contain his giggle, needing to be sure, “I don’t want to force you into anythi-”

“Move. In. With me.”

“Are you sur-?”

“I’m not putting you down till you say yes,” Keith says, manically beginning to hoist Lance up and down, jumping off of the ground until Lance is laughing so hard he’s wracked with hiccups.

“Y-yes!” He says around a hiccup, his voice loud and echoing in the back alley. Keith still hasn’t stopped, as though he didn’t hear him at all. “Yes Keith!” He screams with laughter, clinging on for dear life. “Yes – yes I’ll move in with you!”

His knees are weak as Keith sets him on the ground, but it doesn’t matter because his back hits the wall and keeps him standing as Keith descends and claims his lips with his own, the kiss desperate and overjoyed despite the interruptions from Lance’s hiccups.

Lance breaks away, breathless and gasping for air, whispering, “You’re-” _hic!_ “You’re ridiculous, Red!”

“ _You’re_ the one that wants to live with me,” Keith teases with that smug grin.

Lance groans. “I’m going to live to regret thi-”

But he doesn’t finish as Keith is kissing him again, stealing his breath and holding him firm to his side.

*****

_Now…_

Lance should be surprised, or at _least_ disappointed, but he can only harbour fondness in his heart as he watches Keith, dead to the world and scribbling on his paper like a man possessed. He creeps over, the only time he can sneak up on Keith, and watches over his shoulder until he reaches a reasonable stopping point before snatching the pen from Keith’s unsuspecting hand and declaring, “That’s it, Red. Work day’s over!”

“Lance!” Keith flinches in fright, turning to look at him with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

He raises an unimpressed brow, keeping the pen far out of reach. “It’s half six Keith – party starts at 7, remember?”

Keith blinks blearily at him, looking suspicious as though Lance’s words are a lie. “It can’t be that late, not yet…”

“It can and it is,” Lance says, taking over and stacking Keith’s papers neatly before shoving them into his boyfriend’s hands and pulling him to stand. He had spent the rest of his afternoon applying make-up at home, ready for his obligatory performance, as was tradition, and all he had left to do was slip into his outfit. Well, that was before he got here to find Keith hunched over a table like a gremlin without so much as having run a comb through his hair. He sighs and hooks Keith’s arm with his, not taking no for an answer as he leads him away.

“Lance, come on-” Keith stumbles after him. “I was almost done-”

“And I was almost the Pope,” Lance deadpans, not pausing for even a second. “You can finish up tomorrow, okay?”

Keith huffs but doesn’t fight as Lance drags him along, passing the few performers already here with a quick eyeroll and a, “Don’t ask.”

Perks of the new theatre? Lance’s private dressing room. It’s a mercy Keith is eternally grateful for, no longer having to navigate the swells of chaos and anarchy in the main dressing area. It gives him a place to think, a place to hide.

And a place to be chastised as Lance notices the wrinkled state his shirt is in, his outfit for the evening having been discarded on the couch with little ceremony when he had arrived earlier.

“Gah!” Lance cries, holding the wrinkled abomination before his eyes. “Red, you’re going to be the death of me!”

“It’s _fine,”_ Keith grumbles, removing his top and taking the shirt from Lance’s hands. “It’s just Shiro.”

“Just Shiro,” Lance sighs, shaking his head. “How can you be so heartless?"

“Because my heart belongs to you,” Keith counters, the comment stunning Lance into silence amid his rant and leaving him doe eyed. Keith smirks, doing his buttons up before swearing when he realises that he’s misbuttoning and needing to undo his work.

Lance sighs with exasperation as he shoos Keith’s hands away and takes the front of the shirt in his own hands. With the front done up the creases don’t look nearly as bad, but he’s still displeased with Keith’s inability to take care of his things.

“Hey,” Keith says quietly, distracting Lance from his buttoning mission and placing a light kiss to his lips, careful not to smear the lipstick there. “You look pretty.”

And just like that, Lance is reduced to a blushing and babbling teenager, his cheeks red as he tries to respond to the compliment like a sane human being.

To distract himself Lance reaches down to grab Keith’s trousers to get him to hurry up, but is stopped by Keith snapping a panicked, “Wait!”

Lance pauses, not expecting the reaction and peering at Keith with confusion. The writer fumbles before saying, “Get yourself ready, I’m fine.”

Lance narrows his eyes, “Curious.”

“Go get your dress on,” Keith tells him, distracting Lance easily with praise as he says, “I can’t wait to see your legs in it.”

That’s enough to snag Lance’s attention and have him skipping across the room to where his dress hangs, the odd snapping response forgotten as Keith hastily pulls on the trousers and meticulously checks the pockets, settling on the small couch to pull his dress shoes on.

Lance holds his corset up, silently begging with puppy dog eyes for Keith to help him with the laces. Keith does so without a word of complaint, settling his hands on Lance's hips and reaching around to run a thumb over the scar tissue on his stomach. 

"Feeling nostalgic?" Lance teases, the origin of the scar still a difficult subject for them to talk about. 

Keith kisses the base of Lance's neck. "Feeling thankful," He says before beginning to thread the corset strings and tie Lance into his outfit.

“I must say,” He says as he finishes, Lance stepping away to pull on his thigh-high stockings. “This is one of your more ridiculous costumes.”

“You’re mad,” Lance tells him. “This is one of my _greatest_ costumes!”

He stands and Keith takes in the baby pink ensemble, two hearts over where his nipples lie beneath the corset and a third, well…

Not to mention the skirt of pink feather boas, the elbow-length white gloves and the golden fringe swaying from the bottom of the corset. Keith was right thought: Lance’s legs _did_ look good in it.

Lance looks a little insecure under Keith’s scrutiny, glancing down at himself. “You don’t like it?”

“I love it,” Keith says honestly, and pulls him into a reassuring hug. “You look unbelievable,” He says, no hint of a lie. 

“You’re sweet,” Lance says, kissing at Keith’s neck and leaving an outlined imprint. But, just like the first time he had done such a thing, he doesn’t tell Keith about it’s presence.

“Are we ready to head out?” Keith asks.

Lance looks at him, shaking his head as he grabs a tie from his desk and bundles Keith’s messy hair into a tidy ponytail at the back of his head. “You look like a wildman,” He says fondly, combing his fingers through the tangles gently.

Keith chuckles and obediently waits for Lance to finish making him presentable, smoothing the collar of his shirt before looking at him with awe in his eyes. “My handsome man,” Lance breathes, as though he didn’t even mean the words to slip out.

Keith leans forward, ready to lose endless minutes kissing Lance, but is stopped by Lance’s fingers against his lips. “We better go,” The singer chuckles, taking Keith’s hand. “Before you ruin my lipstick!”

*****

_1 Month Ago…_

The reception venue had one thing that Keith _adored_.

The rooftop balcony was what had pushed Keith to convince Shiro and Adam that this was the place. _Especially_ when it was less a balcony and more a service door leading to the roof.

All the same to him.

He had just needed a few minutes to slip away amongst the festivities and recharge: he had changed so much in the last year, but at his heart Keith was not one for parties and that was one thing time couldn’t change. Lance had seen that panicked look growing in his eye as more and more people crowded around them, the allure of another glass of whiskey growing ever stronger. It was Lance that had taken his hand and asked him if he needed a break.

_Yes,_ he had breathed, as though finally being given permission and feeling relieved beyond compare.

_Would you like me to come with you?_

But Keith had shaken his head: he didn’t want to drag Lance away from the party. Besides, there were times he just needed his own company and Lance was always more than understanding, pecking his cheek and promising he would be here whenever Keith came back down.

The city was laid out at his feet, the noise drifting up to him on the wind and he felt blissfully calm.

“Ever the anti-social git,” Shiro says behind him, settling down next to him and handing him a glass of whiskey. “You better not just guzzle that,” He warned, prompting Keith to take a deep breath of the peated smoke wafting from the amber liquid. “It’s imported from across the channel, and I spent more than a pretty penny on it.”

Keith takes a small sip, his eyes widening at the explosion of woodsmoke and spiced undertones on his tongue. “Wow,” He sighed, the barest hint of heat trailing down his throat as he swallowed.

“I figured we deserved to treat ourselves,” Shiro grins, sipping from his own glass.

“Congratulations, Monsieur Wilkinson,” Keith says, noting how the plain golden band seems perfectly at home on Shiro’s finger. “Or will you be the Shirogane’s?”

Shiro laughs, scratching at the back of his head. “Well, we were actually thinking of hyphenating it…”

“Shirogane-Wilkinson?” Keith splutters. “Jesus, that’s a mouthful! I hope you apologise to your future children for that one.”

Shiro chuckles, leaning a hand back so he can take in the stars without craning his neck too far back. “We’ve come a long way, you and me,” He says wistfully after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

“Who would have thought,” Keith says. “Two street urchins, living this long.”

“Finding people who care about us,” Shiro wraps an arm around Keith’s shoulders and pulling him close for a moment. “I never dreamed we could be so happy.”

Keith mulls Shiro’s words with a sip of whiskey, nodding as he realises Shiro is right. “I never even knew I _could_ be this happy,” He admits. “Everything used to be so black and white, so dull and lifeless. How did we stand it?”

Shiro shrugs, “I guess we got through because we didn’t know what we were missing out on. At least that’s changed now.”

Keith loses himself in the stars, feeling himself unravel like the old days where he and Shiro would count the starlight until they could eventually fall asleep on the cold concrete of the street. “Remember when we wished we could disappear into the sky and never come back?”

Shiro nods, a bittersweet look on his face. “Lost amongst the stars,” He sighs wistfully.

“I wouldn’t leave now,” Keith says almost absentmindedly. “No matter how much you paid me: nothing could convince me to leave.”

“That’s how Adam makes me feel,” Shiro says, side-eyeing Keith. “Do you think Lance is your Adam?”

Keith thinks, surprised by how easy it is to say, “I _know_ he is.” Its so glaringly obvious to him, Lance seeming to be in each and every one of his fibres, keeping his heart pounding, keeping his lungs dragging in air. He keeps his feet on the ground so he can’t get lost in the endless loneliness of space, and draws smiles out of him to the point he thinks his face may crack.

Lance is everything he’s been looking for since he was a dirty kid crying in an orphanage bed, wishing his parents hadn't left him behind.

Shiro pushes to stand, giving Keith a knowing glance and tapping his golden band. “Then I think you know what to do next.”

Shiro leaves his oldest and dearest friend to consider his next step, the city laid out below him and seeming to wait with baited breath for his decision.

*****

_Now…_

Keith had never tended bar before in his life, but it really wasn’t that bad. He out found early that if he poured a liberal helping of spirits into a glass, his ‘customers’ walked - or stumbled - away happy.

Not that they could complain if he was truly terrible: it was a free bar, after all.

It’s with a strange déjà vu Keith watches from the back to see Shiro hoisted onto a table where a chair is waiting on him, his friend drunkenly screaming that they couldn’t do this to him again as they burst into a screeching chorus of Happy Birthday. Keith grinned, happy to be far from the action.

Pidge comes sauntering up waving an empty glass at him. “I require libations, my good sir! Don’t skimp on the vodka,” She winks.

“I should cut you off,” He teases, not bothering to stop her as she reaches across the bar to take the vodka for herself: clearly Keith can’t be trusted to give her an adequate measure.

“You know what’s funny?” She smirks up at him, her eyes huge as ever below the thick lenses of her glasses.

“What?” He entertains, pouring himself another shot of whiskey. Turns out Lance was right: covering a bar shift during a friend’s birthday hardly made you a saint, but it _did_ give you unlimited access to top tier booze.

“That after all this time,” Pidge snorts into her hand, like the punchline is too funny to contain her laughter to even deliver it. “After all this time, you’re tending our bar! Shiro must be so proud.”

Keith rolls his eyes at her, swiping the vodka bottle from her hand and hiding it out of reach on the back shelf. “I would stop teasing me if I were you,” He warns her with a joking tone, “Or I’ll be cutting you off, gremlin.”

“Boo, you whore!” She shouts at him, leaving him laughing as she disappears to get up to, well, who knows what.

Keith hasn’t seen Lance in a long while, backstage with the other performers preparing their birthday wishes for Shiro, and a tingle of excitement sparks as the main lights drop down into darkness and the curtains open to reveal Coran and Allura singing an upbeat duet between them.

More performers come to the bar and get their drinks topped up as the mini show goes on, Keith watching the time tick towards ten o’clock when the next volunteer would take over from him and set him free. He couldn’t wait, as though he were ready to burst out of his skin from sheer anticipation.

He whoops and hollers along with the crowd as Lance saunters onto the stage in his ostentatious outfit, feathers floating around him as though he were truly an angel sent from heaven (with the wicked humour of a devil to boot!).

“I hope we’re all suitable liquored up!” Lance says into his mic, waiting for the resounding cheers from his crowd. “That sounds about right,” He grins, scanning over the drunken faces of his closest friends.

He appraises where Shiro is still stuck atop his table for all to see, being slipped glasses of whiskey to keep him docile. “Happy birthday, Takashi,” Lance says in the breathiest, most sultry tone of voice he can, the words raising hairs on the back of Keith’s neck. “With every year that passes, you come closer to becoming the silver fox we all know lies in your future, and I for one can’t wait for him to emerge.” He winks at the birthday boy, whipping the crowd into whoops and hollers at his shameless flirting.

“Now,” He says slowly, looking to his audience with puppy dog eyes. “I hope you all won’t be mad at me, but my song tonight wasn’t written specifically for the birthday boy. You see,” He says, his eyes flicking to the back of the room where Keith stands and pining him there, even from this distance, “My dear, _darling_ sourpuss of a boyfriend refused our attempts to celebrate his birthday last month, leaving me unable to give him my birthday gift.”

He scans his eyes across his audience, stretching out the pause before asking, “We can’t have that, now, can we?”

Every person, bar Keith, erupts into boos, bringing a grin to Lance’s mouth.

“Will you allow me to give him his birthday present now?”

The crowd clearly says yes.

Already Keith’s cheeks are growing warm at what Lance is building up to, pouring himself a shot so large it would either take the edge off or cause him to go blind. And honestly, at this moment, he would take either with the way his coworkers are turning around and booing him.

“I hope you like your surprise, baby,” Lance says smugly into the mic, knowing just what the attention will be doing to Keith before the band strikes up and Lance launches into the lyrics he wrote specifically for Keith.

_‘I could stay awake just to hear you breathing,_

_Watch you smile while you’re sleeping,_

_While you’re far away and dreaming.’_

But to his surprise, as Lance begins to sing the ‘shot’ of whiskey is long forgotten as his voice draws Keith in. It isn’t the first time Lance has written a song for him, but it’s the first that’s sung with an overflowing abundance of joy with each and every word, Lance so alive and lighting up so bright he’s almost hard to look at.

_‘I could spend my life in this sweet surrender,_

_I could stay lost in this moment forever._

_Every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure!’_

It’s like Lance can’t contain himself as he begins to dance, leaning to drag Shiro up with him and the pair fall into an easy rhythm together, Shiro laughing joyously as Lance’s grin stretches impossibly wide.

_‘Don’t want to close my eyes,_

_I don’t want to fall asleep,_

_Cause I’d miss you baby,_

_And I don’t want to miss a thing!’_

There’s a somersaulting lightness in Keith’s chest, Lance’s infectious energy filling every inch of his being and reminding him all over again how much he loves this man. He couldn’t live without Lance, without the light he brought into his life, his own personal star.

_‘Cause even when I dream of you,_

_The sweetest dream will never do.’_

And with each word his nervousness – his _excitement –_ grows. Because it’s one word closer, one moment closer to the question that’s burning with impatience on his tongue.

With each word, the ring in his pocket grows heavier, threatening to tear through the fabric of his trousers and reveal his intentions to the entire room.

He watches Lance, and hopes beyond hope that Lance gives him the answer he’s been dreaming off.

Lance looks to him and gives him a wink, the look for him and him alone despite being surrounded by their friends and found-family.

_‘I’d still miss you baby,’_

Getting here, to this moment, it had cost them everything they thought they knew about themselves. They had suffered fear and doubt, suffered through this world that seemed so against them being together. Yet, somehow they had made it through to the other side.

_‘And I don’t want to miss a thing!’_

It was a steep price to pay. But, despite what they had been through, Keith knew in his heart that he could give it up all over again for even just _one_ of the many moments he’s gotten to share with Lance.

In the end, some things are worth the price you pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe it? Can you actually believe we are here?  
> I have started and failed writing so many projects over the years - this is a HUGE milestone for me and honestly thank you so much for sharing this journey with me! This piece gave me direction during lockdown, and with every chapter I am left with a sense of pride that I got more of it finished.  
> I cannot thank you all enough for your kudos and comments along the way - you're seriously the reason I have made it to the end. Keith found his support system, and so did I.  
> This moment is so bittersweet, I cannot beliEVE it is over.  
> I hope the end didn't disappoint. This chapter was supposed to be a big ol' infusion of fluff to make up for the chapters and chapters of pain and angst, and I hope it did just that.  
> So, I guess this is it? An actual end. I always wondered what it would feel like.  
> I didn't expect to be so sad it's over.  
> Anyway, you guys are the BEST and I hope you enjoyed this wild ride my brain came up with!!  
> All the love, and I'll see you next time!!! xxxxx


End file.
